*  *  *  *  "Lif/i/irj  hi*  ftngfr  toward  /he  sun,  then  at  the  meri<Ii<n,,  ><, 
made  wilA  it  thret  /•.  n^/ti,,,,^  xtopjting  each  lime,  as  he  jxAuttd  to  th.  (MM, 
and  numbering  upon  hi*  fingers,  one,  two,  three."—  /Vv  IT  !. 


Pages  275  and  346. 


BESSIE  MELYILLE; 


OR, 


PRAYER  BOOK  INSTRUCTIONS   CARRIED 
OUT  INTO  LIFE. 


A    SEQUEL 


0li;m:' 


BY  M.  A.  0. 


"Plant  in  the  heart  of  childhood  the  seed  of  religious  truth; 
foster  its  growth  with  a  mother's  prayers  and  instructions,  and 
sweet  will  be  the  blossoms  of  early  piety,  and  precious  the 
fruits  of  maturer  years.'' 


NEW   YORK: 

(Dctnual  !}13rotfstant  ^Episcopal  Sunta^   Scjjaol  lilnton 
anil  G&un})  13oofc 

7C2  BKOADWAT. 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  yo.ir  18C3, 
BY  DANIEL  DANA.  Jn., 

ID  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  I'nited  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO 

WILLIE, 

IS      THE     SPIKIT     WOKLO 

JC  f)i3     ?JOO  fe 

SEVER EXTLY     INSCRIBED     BY 
"SISTER." 


THE  GENERAL  PROTESTANT  EPISCOPAL  SUNDAY  SCHOOL 
UNION  AND  CUUECII  BOOK  SOCIETY  was  organized  at  a  meeting 
of  the  General  Convention  and  others,  in  November,  1826,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  providing  approved  books  for  Church  Sunday  School  Libraries, 
and  approved  books  of  Instruction  for  Church  Sunday  Schools. 

This  Society  consists  of  the  Bishops  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church,  of  the  Clergy  of  the  same,  of  the  Lay  Deputies  of  the  General 
Convention,  and  all  other  members  of  the  Church  who  shall  contribute 
not  less  than  One  Dollar  annually  to  its  funds. 

2       Every  member  of  the  Church  who  contributes  Thirty  Dollars  in  one 
UJ    payment,  is  a  Life  Member;  one  who  contributes  Fifty  Dollars  at  one 
time,  is  an  Honorary  Manager ;  one  who  contributes  One  Hundred  Dol- 
^    lars  in  ono  payment,  is  a  Patron  of  the  Society. 

<       Every  Life  Member  is  entitled  to  Two  Dollars1  worth  of  Books ;  every 
CQ    Honorary  Manager  to  Three  and  a  Half  Dollars'  worth ;  every  Patron  to 
^3    Seven  Dollars1  worth  of  Books.    The  Books  must  be  drawn  each  year, 
as  arrearages  are  not  allowed  to  accumulate. 

Meetings  are  held  triennially,  during  the  session  of  the  General  Con- 
^  vention. 

IO         The  Board  of  Managers  consists  of  all  the  Bishops,  and  one  hundred 
^     members  elected  triennially  by  the  Society. 

§        The  Executive  Committee  consists  of  all  the  Bishops,  and  twelve  Cler 
ical  and  twelve  Lay  members,  elected  annually  by  the  Board  of  Mana 
gers,  who,  together  with  the  Secretary,  Editor,  and  Treasurer,  ea>  offlcio, 
.      conduct  the  business  of  the  Society. 

The  Union  publishes  Sunday  School  and  Parish  Library  Books,  Cards, 
^  Tracts,  Books  of  Family  and  Private  Devotion,  Sunday  School  Eequi- 
.  j  sites  and  Books  of  Instruction ;  also  the  CHILDREN'S  MAGAZINE  and 

'  J      CHILDBEN'S  GUEST.    Depository,  No.  762  Broadway,  New  York. 
Q 

The  Annual  Meeting  of  the  Board  of  Managers  Is  held  in  October,  nt 

; :       the  time  of  the  meeting  of  the  Board  of  Missions. 

FORM  OF  BEQUEST. 

I  give  and  bequeath  to  "  ffifie  ©eiural  prottatant  Episcopal  Sun. 
tag  Scijool  Smart  antj  Cfjurcfj  33oofc  Sactttn,"  organized  in  the  city 
of  Philadelphia,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1S26,  and  incorporated  by  the 
Legislature  of  the  State  of  New  York,  April  15, 1854,  the  sum  of 

Dollars,  to  be  applied  to  the  uses  and  purposes  of  said  Society . 


SOLICITATIONS. 


Every  Churchman,  and  every  Churchwoman 
throughout  the  United  States  and  the  Canadas,  is 
solicited  to  become  a  member  of  this  Society,  either 
by  annual  subscription,  or  by  being  made  a  Life 
Member,  or  an  Honorary  Member,  or  a  Patron. 
Payment  may  be  made  to  the  Assistant  Treas 
urer,  E.  M.  DUNCAN,  or  sent,  addressed  to  the 
Treasurer,  E.  HAIGIIT,  Esq.,  No.  762  Broadway, 
N.  Y. 

For  terms  of  Membership,  see  preceding  page. 


PREFACE. 


IT  is  hoped  that  the  readers  of  "  The  Little  Episcopalian" 
will  not  be  unwilling  to  renew  their  acquaintance  with  some 
of  its  characters.  They  have-  seen  how  the  teachings  of 
the  Bible  and  the  Church  could  be  understood  and  appre 
ciated  by  a  little  child;  how  they  could  be  her  pleasure  in 
life,  and  her  comfort  in  death.  It  may  now  be  neither  un 
pleasant,  nor  unprofitable,  to  follow  some  of  the  other  char 
acters  out  into  the  walks  of  active  life,  and  see  how  these 
same  teachings,  when  listened  to  and  obeyed,  can  mould 
the  character  for  usefulness  in  this  world  as  well  as  hap 
piness  in  the  next.  The  author  sincerely  trusts  that  this 
volume  may  be  the  means  of  unfolding  to  some  heart  some 
of  the  value  of  that  great  blessing  which  our  Saviour  has 
granted  us  in  the  possession  of  the  Prayer  Book  and  the 
Church. 

It  has  been  found  necessary  to  alter  the  dates  of  "The 
1* 


6  PREFACE. 

Little  Episcopaliar ,"    in   order  to  provide   for   the  develop 
ment  of  the  more  tangled  incidents  of  the  present  story. 

It  is  proper  to  add,  that  the  author  belongs  to  a  brave 
congregation  which,  within  a  few  years,  has  fought  its  way 
up  from  nothing.  It  has  outgrown  its  little  church,  and  is 
now  engaged,  in  a  spirit  of  gallant  enterprise  and  self-deny 
ing  liberality,  in  erecting  a  fair  and  spacious  temple  to  the 
Lord.  In  this  work  almost  every  child  takes  his  share, 
and  its  projectors  would  leave  nothing  undone  to  secure 
a  complete  success.  Should  this  book  find  as  much  favor 
with  the  Church  as  its  predecessor,  its  profits  will  be  de 
voted  to  the  new  "Church  of  tte  Nativity." 


M.  A.   C. 


HCSTSVILLK  ALABAMA, 
Easltr   1358. 


BESSIE   MEIYIIIE, 


CHAPTER    I. 

I  give  thee  to  thy  native  dust, 

Thou  loved  and  honored  form : 
I  murmur  not,  for  God  13  just, 

And  I  am  but  a  worm. 
I  kneel  upon  thy  grave,  while  prayer 

Bursts  from  my  aching  heart: 
0  Saviour,  reunite  us  where 

We  cannot  part. 

Six  years  had  passed  away.  The  long  grass 
grew  over  little  Jennie's  grave ;  and  another 
close  beside  it,  upon  which  the  sod  had  been 
newly  laid,  was  full  in  view  from  a  window  in 
Mr.  Kennedy's  house,  at  which  Bessie  Melville 
was  sitting.  Again  her  young  heart  was  filled 
with  sorrow:  not  the  frantic  violence  of  that 
childish  grief  with  which  she  had  bewailed  the 
loss  of  a  sister-child,  but  the  more  desolate  sad- 


8  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

ness  \vhicli  belongs  to  the  orphan.  And  more 
than  this:  since  her  mother's  death  she  had 
found  a  home  and  kind,  affectionate  sympathy 
in  the  family  circle  of  the  excellent  minister; 
but  now  this  tie  was  also  to  be  sundered,  and 
in  a  few  days  she  was  to  bid  adieu  to  thoso 
warm-hearted  friends,  and  henceforward  to  seek 
companionship  and  sympathy  amid  the  varied 
characters  of  a  boarding-school. 

In  her  hand  she  held  an  open  letter  which 
she  had  often  read  before,  and  whose  pages 
were  stained  by  the  many  tears  which  had  been 
wept  over  it,  for  days  and  weeks  gone  by ;  and, 
as  she  tried  to  read  again  its  well-remembered 
words,  tears  blinded  her  eyes,  and  she  wept  long 
and  bitterly. 

The  letter  read  thus : — 

"I  have  done,  my  dearest  child,  with  earth 
and  earthly  things,  and  from  the  borders  of  the 
grave  I  entreat  you  to  listen  to  the  last  words 
of  counsel  your  mother  Avill  <jver  give  you. 
You  are  very  young;  to  your  excitable,  impul 
sive  temperament  the  world  will  present  many 
allurements,  and  the  paths  of  earthly  pleasure 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  9 

many  attractions.  Uncontrolled,  your  disposition 
will  prove  to  you  a  temptation  and  a  snare ;  re 
strained  and  guided  by  religious  principle,  it  will 
make  you  an  earnest-minded,  zealous  Christian. 
I  would  not  have  you  morose  and  gloomy.  God 
loves  to  see  you  happy,  and  has  placed  you  in 
a  beautiful  world,  and  surrounded  you  with  many 
means  of  happiness,  which  it  would  be  ungrate 
ful  for  you  to  disregard.  But  He  has  also  given 
you  an  infallible  test  by  which  to  try  all  the 
pleasures  which  seem  so  attractive ;  and  I  en 
treat  you,  my  child,  faithfully,  honestly,  earn 
estly,  to  use  that  test,  and  to  engage  in  no  pur 
suit,  and  to  enjoy  no  pleasures,  which  will  not 
bear  to  be  tried  by  the  Word  of  God. 

"You  will  find  in  my  work-basket  the  little 
Bible  and  Prayer-Book,  which  are  worth  more 
than  all  else  that  I  can  leave  you.  Take  them, 
Bessie,  use  them  constantly,  prize  them  highly, 
let  them  guide  antl  direct  all  your  ways.  They 
are  old,  and  worn,  and  unsightly  now,  but  they 
are  precious.  They  were  given  to  me  in  my 
childhood,  by  your  grandfather,  before  I  had 
learned  their  value ;  but  for  thirty  years  they 
have  been  my  companions,  counsellors  and  com- 


10  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

forters.  From  their  pages  your  sister  learned 
the  way  to  that  heavenly  home  to  which  she 
was  so  early  called,  and  now  I  commit  them  to 
the.  keeping  of  my  other  child,  praying  that 
God  may,  through  them,  guide  her  thither  also. 
"You,  my  child,  can  never  know  the  bitter 
ness  of  this  separation  to  your  mother's  heart. 
You  will,  it  is  true,  feel  lonely  and  desolate ; 
you  will  miss  the  mother  who  has  sympathized 
in  your  childish  sorrows,  participated  in  your 
joys,  and  loved  you  so  devotedly;  "but  you  can 
not  know  the  feeling  of  my  heart  at  the  thought 
of  leaving  you,  so  young  and  excitable,  sur 
rounded  by  the  allurements  of  an  enticing  world. 
But  for  the  sustaining  promises  of  the  baptismal 
covenant,  my  fears  for  you  would  be  overwhelm 
ing.  As  it  is,  my  anxieties  are  calmed,  and  my 
fears  sweetly  soothed,  by  the  words  of  that  pre 
cious  promise  which  at  your  baptism  was  uttered 
by  a  human  voice,  and  which*  now  seems  to  be 
whispered  in  my  ear  by  my  covenant-keeping 
Saviour  himself:  'Which  promise  He,  for  his 
part,  wrill  most  surely  keep  and  perform.'  This, 
Bessie,  is  all  the  hope  I  have  in  leaving  you; 
but  it  is  a  precious  one,  and  upon  it  I, calmly 


BESSIE    MELVILLE  11 

and  sweetly  rely.  With  your  Saviour  for  your 
friend,  I  am  not  afraid  to  leave  you  what  the 
world  calls  an  orphan.  Go  to  Him,  my  child, 
in  all  situations  and  circumstances;  and,  when 
ever  in  doubt  or  trouble  your  young  heart  swells 
with  grief  at  the  thought  that  you  have  no 
mother,  go  to  Him,  and  He  will  sympathize 
with  you  more  tenderly,  and  counsel  you  more 
unerringly,  than  your  mother  ever  has  done,  or 
ever  could  do. 

"Farewell,  my  precious  child.  'Unto  God's 
gracious  mercy  and  protection  I  commit  you.' 
You  .  need  no  assurances  of  mine  to  make  you 
believe,  that  if  in  heaven  the  spirits  of  the  just 
are  permitted  to  watch  over  the  loved  ones  of 
earth,  your  mother's  spirit  and  Jennie's  will  al 
ways  linger  lovingly  about  you.  / 

"YOUK  DYING   MOTHEK." 

Bessie  needed  not  to  read  this  letter,  for  its 
every  word  was  engraved  upon  her  memory, 
and,  as  she  sat  with  it  in  her  hand,  a  rude 
touch  aroused  her  from  her  reverie,  and  there, 
at  her  side  stood  what  had  once  been  Jennie's 
lamb,  now  quite  a  veteran,  and  the  most  privi- 


12  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

leged  member  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  household.  lie 
thrust  his  head  into  Bessie's  Lip,  expecting  a 
caress;  bnt  the  sight  of  him  awakened  the  mem 
ories  of  her  childhood's  home,  and,  putting  belli 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  she  sobbed  aloud. 

Presently  a  soft  little  hand  -\vas  laid  upon 
her  cheek,  and  a  childish  voice  said: 

"  What  makes  you  cry  so,  Bessie  ?  Can  I  do 
any  thing  for  you  ?" 

"No,  Mary,"  replied  Bessie;  "I  do  not  want 
any  thing  that  you  can  give  me.  I  want  my 
dear  old  home,  with  the  mother  and  sister  that 
once  I  had,  and  these  neither  you  nor  any  .other 
human  being  can  give  back  to  me  again." 

"Oh,  Bessie,"  said  the  child,  as  she  looked 
up  earnestly  into  her  face,  "surely  you  do  not 
want  your  mother  and  Jennie  back  again  in 
this  world?" 

"And  why  not,  Mary?  Oh,  if  you  were  the 
lonely,  desolate  orphan  that  I  am,  how  your 
heart  would  long  to  see  your  mother  once 
more." 

"  Yes,  Bessie,  I  know  that.  I  love  my  mother 
very  dearly,  and  should  miss  her  very  much  il" 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  13 

she  should  die;    but  I  never  should   want  her 
to  come  back  to  me." 

Bessie  looked  with  surprise  at  the  child's 
earnest  face,  and  asked — 

"Why,  Mary?" 

"Because,"  replied  she,  solemnly,  "it  would 
be  God  that  made  her  die ;  and  God  never  can 
do  any  thing  that  is  not  right;  and  if  it  is 
right  for  Him  to  take  her  away,  it  could  not 
be  right  for  her  to  stay  here,  and  I  could  not 
want  her  back." 

Bessie  was  startled.  The  child's  earnest  man 
ner,  her  simple  trust  in  God's'  goodness  and 
mercy,  seemed  but  a  re-echo  of  what,  in  years 
gone  by,  she  had  heard  from  her  own  little  sis 
ter's  lips,  and  a  chord  was  touched  in  her  heart 
which  vibrated  sweetly  with  those  pleasant  mem 
ories. 

"You  are  right,  Mary,"  she  said,  "and  I  was 
very  wrong  to  say  what  I  did.  You  are  a  sweet 
little  comforter ;  and  I  would  like  to  know  Avhere 
you  learned,  young  as  you  are,  to  console  the 
distressed." 

"Mother  taught  me,"  replied  Mary.  "She 
showed  me  a  verse  in  the  Bible,  which  says  that 


14  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

God  docs  not  willingly  make  us  sorry.  She  sajs 
that  lie  is  always  more  grieved  than  we  are, 
when  we  are  in  trouble ;  and  I  know,  Bessie,  if 
lie  was  more  sorry  than  you  were,  when  your 
mother  died,  it  must  have  been  very  right  for 
her  to  die,  or  else  He  never  could  have  taken 
her  away  from  you." 

"  Yes,  Mary,  that  is  all  true ;  and  I  know 
that  it  is  wrong  and  very  selfish  for  me  to  wish 
my  dear  mother  back  again  in  this  world,  where 
she  suffered  so  much  sickness  and  sorrow.  But 
sometimes  I  feel  so  lonely,  and  seem  to  have  no 
body  to  love  me  and  care  for  me,  and  I  cannot 
help  wishing,  for  a  moment,  to  have  my  kind 
and  loving  mother  with  me  once  more." 

"  Oh,  Bessie,  don't  say  that  nobody  loves  you, 
or  cares  for  you.  I  love  you  dearly,  and  so  do 
father  and  mother;  and  as  to  Willie,  he  loves 
you,  I  believe,  better  than  he  does  all  of  us 
put  together." 

"  Bravo !  my  little  Mary,"  said  a  cheerful  voice, 
as  a  bright  smiling  face  peered  in  at  the  win 
dow.  "Pray,  who  gave  you  the  power  to  look 
into  my  heart,  and  to  weigh  my  affections,  and 
who  taught  you  how  much  of  my  love  to  give 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  15 

to  each  member  of  the  family?  I  do  love  Bes 
sie  very  dearly,  but  who  told  you  that  I  did  not 
love  my  little  pet  sister  just  as  much?"  and  with 
one  bound  he  sprang  through  the  window,  and 
clasping  Mary  in  his  arms,  shook  her  heartily 
and  merrily. 

"  You  told  me  so,  yourself,"  replied  she.  "  I 
do  not  mean  by  words,"  she  added,  as  she  saw 
Willie's  eyes  dilate  with  astonishment,  "  but  I 
can  tell  by  the  way  you  act.  You  love  to  take 
me  in  your  arms,  and  play  with  me,  and  run 
after  me  in  the  yard ;  but  you  never  say  to  me, 
as  you  do  to  Bessie,  '  Come,  and  let  us  go  and 
walk  by  ourselves  in  the  grove ;'  or,  '  take  this 
rose  and  wear  it  in  your  hair  for  my  sake ;' 
or"— 

Willie's  face  became  crimson  as  the  commu 
nicative  child  went  on  to  specify  her  reasons  for 
giving  the  first  place  in  his  affect  ions  to  Bes 
sie,  and  he  turned  to  his  old  pet,  who  had 
sought  his  side,  and  tried  to  hide  his  confusion 
by  caressing  him. 

A  glance  at  Bessie's  countenance  showed  him, 
by  the  traces  of  recent  tears,  that  her  heart 
was  very  sad ;  and  although  his,  too,  was  heavy 


16  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

with  sorrow  at  the  thought  of  the  separation 
which  a  few  days  would  effect,  and  the  long 
months  which  would  intervene  before  they  should 
meet  again,  yet  he  determined,  with  his  char 
acteristic  unselfishness,  to  do  all  in  his  power 
to  make  her  last  hours  at  his  home  as  pleasant 
as  possible. 

"Come,  Bessie,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "get 
your  bonnet,  and  let  us  take  a  walk.  The  a^jr  is 
soft  and  pleasant,  and  we  have  the  promise  of  a 
glorious  sunset.  We  will  go  to  the  hill,  where 
we  will  have  a  fine  view  of  it." 

Bessie  silently  arose,  and  after  they  had  reached 
the  porch,  Willie  called  out — 

"  Come  along,  Mary,  I  forgot  to  ask  you. 
You  may  go  with  us  if  you  wish  it." 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  replied  she,  as  she  came 
running  out  after  them ;  and  then  added,  look 
ing  up  archly  into  his  face,  "it  is  just  as  I 
said.  When  you  have  Bessie,  you  do  not  care 
for  anybody  else ;  you  even  forget  your  little 
sister,  when  she  is  standing  right  before  your 
eyes;"  and  as  the  crimson  flush  mounted  agjjin 
to  Willie's  brow,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  teased, 
she  added,  gaily — 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  17 

"  For  shame,  you  naughty  boy !  to  love  any 
body  better  than  the  sister  who  thinks  you  are 
the  very  best  brother  in  the  world." 

Bessie  was  too  sorrowful  to  be  affected  by 
Mary's  volubility,  even  if  she  had  heard  it; 
but  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  talk,  and  "Wil 
lie  was  so  thoroughly  abashed  that  it  required 
several  minutes  for  him  to  recover  himself;  they 
therefore  walked  some  distance  in  unbroken  si 
lence. 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon  in  the  early  south 
ern  autumn ;  one  of  those  days  when  the  balmi- 
ness  of  spring-time  seems  to  linger  around  the 
decaying  year,  and  a  soft,  hazy  atmosphere  en 
wraps  nature  in  a  quiet  beauty  akin  to  the 
dreaminess  of  a  moon-light  night.  There  was, 
as  yet,  nothing  that  betokened  the  sterility  of 
approaching  winter.  The  frost  had  not  yet 
blighted  the  summer  verdure ;  it  had  only  left 
its  gentle  and  beautiful  impress  here  and  there 
upon  some  majestic  tree,  whose  every  leaf 
glowed  in  the  richness  of  its  varied  dyes,  and 
stood  like  some  towering  cluster  of  gorgeous 
flowers. 

The   calm   beauty   of  the  scene  was   soothing 


18  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

to  Bessie's  troubled  heart,  and  she  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Willie,  of  leaving  all 
of  you,  and  going  with  my  sad,  heavy  heart, 
among  strangers  who  will  have  no  feelings  in 
unison  with  mine,  or  sympathy  with  my  grief. 
I  thought  that  I  had  already  realized  that  I 
was  an  orphan,  but  I  find  that  I  have  not  yet 
taken  in  the  depth  of  desolation  contained  in 
that  dreary  word.  I  have  been  wondering,  Wil 
lie,  why  it  is  that  I  am  so  bereaved ;  why  I  am 
left  thus  forlorn  and  friendless  while  others  of 
my  young  companions  around  me  have  a  hap 
py  home  gladdened  by  the  affectionate  care  of 
father  and  mother,  and  the  pleasant  companion 
ship  of  brothers  and  sisters?  O,  Willie !  what 
is  it  I  have  done  ?  how  have  I  sinned,  that  1 
should  be  thus  punished?" 

Willie  waited  a  moment,  and  then  said  very 
gently : 

"  The  Bible  tells  us,  Bessie,  that  these  heavy 
trials  arc  often  sent  to  God's  most  favored 
children.  Sometimes  they  are  designed  to  pun 
ish  us  for  sin,  but  sometimes  to  '  try  our  pa 
tience  for  the  example  of  others,  and  that  our 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  19 

faitli  may  be  found  in  the  day  of  the  Lord, 
laudable,  glorious,  and  honorable  to  the  increase 
of  glory  and  endless  felicity,'  as  the  Prayer- 
Book  says.  And  then,  too,"  he  added,  "there 
have  been  many  things  to  soften  the  blow; 
many  incidents  of  mercy  that  ought  to  moder 
ate  your  grief — your  mother's  holy,  example  and 
peaceful  end,  and  fragrant  memory ;  the  comfort 
of  being  with  her  to  the  very  last,  and  the  affec 
tionate  words  you  have  in  her  own  hand-writing. 
O,  Bessie,  'like  as  a  father  chasteneth  his  son, 
in  that  way,  and  not  in  an  unloving  and  angry 
way,  the  Lord  thy  God  doth  chasten  thee.'  You 
have  some  friends  left.  You  know  that  wrhile 
my  father  and  mother  live,  their  home  shall  be 
yours,  and"  he  added  in  a  low  but  earnest  tone, 
"when  they  are  gone,  while  God  spares  me, 
you  shall  never  be  homeless." 

The  change  in  his  tone  of  voice  as  lie  solemn 
ly  uttered  these  last  words,  aroused  Bessie,  and 
as  she  looked  up  into  his  face,  she  met  his  af- 
f^tionate  gaze.  She  was  neither  surprised  nor 
disconcerted,  for,  from  her  earliest  childhood,  but 
more  especially  since  Jennie's  death,  she  had 
been  as  much  accustomed  to  his  demonstrations 


20  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

of  affection  as  if  he  had  been  her  own  brother, 
and  she  was  now  too  much  absorbed  in  her 
own  sorrow  to  suspect  that  any  feeling  save 
that  of  compassionate  sympathy  had  prompted 
that  vow. 

"  I  hope,  dear  Willie,"  she  replied,  "  that  you 
and  your  kind  parents  will  not  think  when  you 
see  me  so  sad,  that  I  do  not  appreciate  your 
kindness,  or  that  I  am  very  ungrateful.  I  know 
that  you  are  kind  and  affectionate,  and  I  thank 
you  most  heartily  for  it,  but  just  now  I  only 
feel  that  I  have  received  a  stunning  blow  ;  I 
can  as  yet  scarcely  recognize  that  it  is  a  loving 
hand  that  dealt  it,  and  that  it  is  accompanied 
with  some  great  mercies.  You  know  that  I  am 
excitable,  and  now  I  feel  nothing,  know  noth 
ing,  realize  nothing,  except  that  I  have  no 
mother !" 

There  are  times  in  the  life  of  every  one, 
when  under  the  pressure  of  heavy  grief,  words 
of  comfort,  however  soothingly  spoken,  have  no 
power  to  console;  when  all  the  comfort  tl^t 
the  stricken  spirit  is  able  to  take  in  is  the  sym 
pathy  of  silence.  Willie  had  learned  this,  so  he 
made  no  reply  to  Bessie,  but  gently  drawing 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  21 

her  arm  within  his  own,  he  led  her  without  a 
word  to  the  top  of  the  hill  from  wThence  they 
were  to  watch  the  sunset.  He  felt  her  whole 
frame  trembling  with  emotion,  but  without  ap 
pearing  to  notice  it  he  quietly  seated  her  upon 
a  fallen  tree,  and  hoping  that  the  beautiful  land 
scape  which  wras  now  spread  out  before  her 
might  calm  her  excited  feelings,  he  withdrew 
a  few  paces  behind  her  that  she  might  feel  her 
self  alone.  From  a  little  distance  he  watched 
her  countenance  as  with  strained  eyes  she  leaned 
forward  to  drink  in  all  the  loveliness  of  that 
sunset-scene.  In  a  few  moments  the  expression 
of  suffering  upon  her  face  gave  way  to  one  of 
delight,  and  clasping  her  hands  she  said,  in  a 
smothered  voice — 

"  Just  like  my  mother's  dying  bed !" 
Willie  turned  and  looked  at  the  scene.  It 
was  indeed  a  beautiful  type  of  a  Christian's 
death-bed.  ISTot  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen,  and 
yet  the  declining  sun  did  not  go  down  dazzling 
the  beholder  with  a  blaze  of  light,  but  he  gently 
sunk  to  rest  with  the  brightness  of  his  glory 
mellowed  and  subdued  by  the  misty  mantle 
which  enwrapped  all  nature. 


22  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

And  so,  thought  Willie,  did  the  sun  of  her 
life  go  down,  unclouded  by  doubt  and  fear,  but 
wrapped  in  a  veil  of  penitence  and  humility. 
She  trembled  while  she  trusted,  realizing  her 
own  sinfulness  while  she  confidingly  reposed  in 
the  all-sufficiency  of  her  Saviour's  righteousness. 
lie  gazed  in  silence  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
taking  Bessie's  arm  led  her  home  without  a 
word.  He  soon  perceived  that  the  quiet  beauty 
of  nature  had  soothed  her  more  effectually  than 
any  human  comforter  could  have  done,  and  he 
rejoiced  to  see,  from  the  expression  of  her  coun 
tenance,  that  the  storm  within  had  for  the  pres 
ent  abated. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  23 


CHAPTER    II. 

"Thine  eyes  in  me  the  sheep  behold, 
Whose  feet  have  wandered  from  thy  fold, 
That,  guideless,  helpless,  strives  in  vain 
To  find  its  safe  retreat  again; 
Now  listens,  if  perchance  his  ear 
The  Shepherd's  well-known  voice  may  hear; 
Now,  as  the  tempests  round  it  blow, 
In  plaintive  accents  vents  its  woe. 
Great  Kuler  of  this  earthly  ball, 
Do  thou  my  erring  steps  recall : 
Oh  seek  thou  him,  who  thee  has  sought, 
Nor  turns  from  thy  decrees  his  thought." 

MEREICK. 

EVENING  prayers  were  over,  and  the,  house 
hold  had  scattered  to  their  various  employments. 
Bessie  sat  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber, 
looking  from  her  window  into  the  church-yard, 
where  the  full-orbed  moon  shone  sadly  down 
upon  the  quiet  graves. 

The  storm  that  had  swept  over  her  heart  had 
passed  away,  but  it  had  left  her  exhausted. 
She  could  not  read,  she  could  not  think,  and,  as 
in  the  soft  moonlight  she  distinctly  recognized 


24  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

her  mother's  grave  and  Jennie's,  she  was  half 
dreaming,  half  musing  of  her  old  home,  her 
mother  and  sister,  and  then  of  heaven,  their 
happiness  and  her  loneliness.  From  this  reverie 
she  was  aroused  by  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door, 
and  Mrs.  Kennedy  entered. 

She  seated  herself  at  Bessie's  side,  and  said: 
"In  a  few  days,  my  child,  you  are  goiirg  to 
leave  us,  and  there  is  one  thing  which  yet  re 
mains  to  be  done.  I  have  brought,  you  the 
key  of  your  mother's  cabinet,  and  wish  you  to 
examine  its  contents.  Most  probably  it  contains 
many  papers  which  stranger-eyes  have  no  right 
to  look  into,  and  yet  it  is  necessary  that  your 
lawyers  should  examine  into  the  condition  of 
the  estate,  and  especially  necessary  that  they 
should  see  if  your  mother  did  not  leave  a  will. 
Now,  I  wish  you  to  be  the  first  to  invade  the 
sanctity  of  that  cabinet.  You  can  take  out  all 
the  private  papers,  but  you  must  be  careful  to 
leave  the  business  documents  untouched.  This 
should,  probably,  have  been  done  before,  but 
now  it  can  be  delayed  no  longer,  and  I  have 
brought  you  the  key,  that  you  may  select,  any 
time  when  you  feel  most  adequate  to  the  la.-k.v 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  25 

"  I  will  do  it  to-night,  Mrs.  Kennedy." 

"  I  would  not  advise  you  to  this,  my  dear. 
You  look  very  tired,  and  I  think  it  would  be 
much  better  for  you  to  wait  until  the  morn 
ing." 

"No,  Mrs.  Kennedy,"  replied  Bessie,  "I  pre 
fer  to  do  it  now.  It  will  not  be,  as  you  sup 
pose,  a  painful  task.  I  rather  think  that  any 
thing  which  would  bring,  me  into  close  c5m- 
munion  with  my  mother  would  be  a  relief  to 
me.  I  know  that  she  had  some  sacred  associ 
ations  connected  with  that  old  cabinet.  It  was 
the  depository  of  my  father's  miniature,  and  of 
his  letters  to  her,  both  before  and  after  their 
marriage ;  and,  while  examining  its  recesses,  I 
shall  feel  that  I  am  in  her  immediate  presence." 

"  Yery  well,  Bessie ;  you  must  of  course  be 
governed  fyy  your  own  feelings  in  this  matter. 
If  you  are  going  to  undertake  it  now,  you 
ought  to  begin  at  once,  or  else  you  will  en 
croach  too  much  upon  your  hours  of  sleep 
Good-night,  my  dear." 

"  Mrs.  Kennedy  put  her  arms  around  Bessie, 
and  kissed  her,  and  then  said  gently :  "  Try,  my 
child,  and  not  be  too  sad.  God  has  granted 


26  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

you  tender  mercies,  even  in  the  midst  of  your 
heavy  bereavement.  I  cannot  supply  your  moth 
er's  place,  and  this  cannot  be  to  you  altogether 
rt-hat  your  old  home  was ;  but  I  will  be  to  you 
a  second  mother,  and  this  shall  be  your  second 
home." 

"Thank  yon,  dear  Mrs.  Kennedy,"  said  poor 
Bessie,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  Do  not  think  I 
am*  ungrateful ;  I  amvonly  broken-hearted." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  closed  the  door,  and  Bessie  was 
again  alone.  She  sat  perfectly  still  a  little 
while,  and  then  went  to  the  cabinet  and  pressed 
the  key.  She  opened  the  little  drawer  nearest 
to  her,  and  in  it  she  found  a  morocco  case 
which  contained  two  miniatures,  those  of  her 
father  and  mother,  taken  immediately  after  their 
marriage.  Her  father  she  did  not  at  all  re 
member;  but,  in  the  dim  distance  of  her  ear 
liest  childhood  she  recollected  sitting  in  her 
mother's  lap,  while  she  told  her,  with  fast-drop 
ping  tears,  what  a  loving  father  she  had  lost, 
and  how  the  holy  angels  took  him  away  because 
he  was  too  good  Jo  stay  on  earth. 

But  that  mother's  face !  how  well  she  re 
membered  that.  She  gazed  with  eagerness 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  27 

upon  it,  beaming  with  the  freshness  of  un 
clouded  youth,  and  radiant  with  the  impress  of 
a  spirit  refined  and  purified  by  an  indwelling 
religious  principle. 

Iii  a  little  book,  in  the  same  drawer,  were  re 
corded,  by  her  own  hand, .  the  dates  of  the  bap 
tism  of  her  children,  the  confirmation  of  herself, 
her  husband,  and  children,  and  the  death  of  her 
husband  and  of  Jennie.  Close  by  was  a  long 
ringlet  of  brown  hair,  which  her  childish  taste 
had  so  much  admired  upon  her  sister's  head ; 
and  there,  too,  was  a  lock  of  soft  black  hair, 
which  her  mother  had  often  told  her  she  might 
look  at,  but  must  not  touch,  and  which  she 
had  been  taught  to  reverence  as  a  memorial  of 
her  father. 

Before  all  these  relics  of  the  past  Bessie  stood 
like  one  entranced.  Her  bounding  heart  leaped 
over  the  chasm  which  divided  her  from  that 
happy  time,  and  again  she  wras  a  merry-hearted 
child,  in  that  pleasant  home,  with  a  gentle 
mother  to  love  and  guide  her,  and  a  little  sister 
for  her  companion.  She  went  over  in  memory 
many  of  the  incidents  of  her  childhood.  She 
forgot  that  she  was  an  orphan ;  forgot  that  from 


28  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

the  window  close  by  she  could  look  upon  the 
graves  of  all  those  whom  she  had  so  dearly 
loved.  For  a  while  she  was  again  the  thought 
less,  impulsive  Bessie  Melville  of  by-gone  years 
to  whom  sorrow  was  but  a  name. 

The  night  wore  away,  but  Bessie  knew  it  not. 
At  length  she  awoke  from  her  deep  reverie, 
and  but  that  she  found  herself  standing  before 
that  open  cabinet,  with  strained  eyes  staring 
upon  that  long  curl  of  Jennie's,  which  she  lul<l 
in  her  hand,  she  might  have  fancied  that  she 
had  been  in  a  profound  slumber,  dreaming 
sweetly  of  her  childhood's  home.  A  feeling  of 
utter  weariness  and  exhaustion  reminded  her 
how  severely  her  strength  had  been  tried  that 
day,  by  fatigue  and  excitement,  and  she  deter 
mined  to  postpone  any  farther  examination  into 
the  contents  of  the  cabinet  until  the  morrow. 
Sadly  and  reverently  she  replaced  every  thing 
just  as  she  had  found  it,  and  endeavored  to 
close  the  drawer ;  but  finding  some  difficulty, 
she  placed  one  hand  upon  the  solid  wood,  in 
order  more  effectually  to  bring  all  her  strength 
to  the  assistance  of  the  other,  in  shutting  it.  It 
was  closed,  and  as  she  removed  the  other  hand, 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  29 

a  little  door,  which  had  been  unconsciously 
opened  by  the  pressure  of  a  secret  spring,  flew 
back,  and  revealed  two  miniature  shelves  just 
large  enough  to  contain  two  small  packages  of 
letters.  They  were  old,  and  yellow,  and  worn, 
but  evidently  tied  up  with  great  care ;  and 
Bessie  concluded  that  they  must  have  been  a 
very  valuable  treasure  to  her  mother.  She 
thought  at  once  of  her  father's  letters,  in  years 
long  gone  by,  and  wishing  again  to  look  at  his 
signature,  she  opened  one  and  turned  to  the  last 
page.  To  her  surprise  it  was  signed — 

"  Your  broken-hearted  sister,  JENXIE." 

Bessie  was  amazed.  She  had  never  heard  her 
mother  allude  to  her  sister,  and  now  knew  for 
the  first  time  that  she  ever  had  one.  Eagerly 
she  turned  to  the  beginning  of  the  letter,  whose 
contents  were  as  follows : 

"From  the  wilds  of  the  far  North-West,  sur 
rounded  on  all  sides  by  savage  Indian  tribes,  in 
a  country  where  the  foot  of  the  white  man  has 
seldom  trodden,  I  write  to  you,  my  dearest  sis 
ter,  scarcely  indulging  the  hope  that  this  letter 
will  ever  reach  YOU.  Oh !  if  I  could  but  see 


30  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

}ou  once  more;  if  I  could  but  hear  again  your 
once  familiar  voice,  I  would  ask  no  greater 
earthly  blessing.  In  all  the  waywardness,  and 
obstinacy,  and  sin,  of  my  youth ;  in  all  the 
trouble  and  sorrow  of  my  maturer  years,  my 
heart  has  clung  to  my  twin-sister  with  unfalter 
ing  love,  and  the  grief  I  have  caused  you  to 
bear  has  not  been  the  least  bitter  ingredient  in 
my  cup. 

Of  my  present  condition,  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  yon  but  a  story  of  unmitigated  sadness.  Of 
my  six  children,  God  has  mercifully  removed  all 
except  the  two  youngest ;  and  for  this  blessing 
I  daily  thank  Him.  About)  six  months  ago,  my 
wretched  husband  added  to  all  his  other  crimes 
that  of  forsaking  me  and  marrying  an  Indian 
woman,  closely  allied  to  the  chief  of  the  tribe. 
My  little  boy,  Herbert,  a  child  of  three  years, 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  chief,  by  his  sin 
gular  beauty  and  wonderful  muscular  develop 
ment,  and  he  insisted  upon  having  him,  that  ho 
might  train  him  in  the  tactics  of  Indian  war 
fare.  To  this  his  father  madly  consented.  I  ex 
hausted  every  argument  which  a  frantic  mother 
could  suggest,  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  My  child 


BESSIE     MELVILLE,  31 

was  taken  from  me,  and  transferred  to  the 
household  of  the  chief,  where  he  is  becoming 
thoroughly  initiated  into  all  the  horrors  of  sav 
age  life.  He  is  beyond  the  reach  of  my  guid 
ance,  and  counsels,  and  influence,  but,  thank 
God !  he  never*  can  get  beyond  the  reach  of 
his  mother's  prayers.  Anxious  and  distressed 
as  I  must  be  about  him,  still  must -I  hope  and 
believe  that  a  merciful  Saviour  will  take  care 
of  him.  Those  blessed  words  of  the  baptismal 
covenant  '  which  promise  He  for  his  part  will 
most  surely  keep  and  perform,'  ring  constantly 
in  my  ears  with  tones  of  sweet  assurance,  and 
stay  and  support  my  aching  heart  when  it  has 
nothing  else  to  rest  upon.  Yes,  sister,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  both  my  children  have,  here  in 
this  savage  wilderness,  had  their  brow  bathed 
with  the  waters  of  Holy  Baptism,  and  signed 
with  the  blessed  emblem  of  our  redemption.  1( 
is  just  a  year  since  a  holy  man  of  God  passed 
through  this  Indian  country ;  and  his  presence 
during  those  two  brief  days,  and  the  words  of 
comfort  that  he  spoke,  and  the  precious  services 
I  enjoyed,  made  me  feel  when  he  was  gone 
that  I  had  indeed  '  entertained  an  angel  uiv 


32  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

a  wares.'  My  little  girl  was  just  six  weeks  old, 
and  to  guard  against  interruption,  we  carried 
the  children  into  the  very  depths  of  the  forest, 
where,  beneath  a  spreading  oak,  four  little 
mounds  marked  the  quiet  resting-place  of  my 
other  children.  The  minister  *ead  every  word 
of  the  Baptismal  Office,  and  to  my  famished 
soul  how  solemn  was  that  service.  The  thought 
seemed  to  press  me  down  as  with  a  mighty 
weight.  That  spacious  forest  cathedral,  whose 
deep  blue  arch  was  the  workmanship  of  the 
great  Architect  of  nature,  seemed  to  be  conse 
crated  to  the  service  of  Almighty  God  by  the 
solemn  rite  which  admitted  my  little  children  to 
the  privileges  of  a  Saviour's  fold.  And  then 
and  there,  while  kneeling  upon*  that  fresh,  green 
sod,  came  a  thought  into  my  heart  which  others 
might  deem  enthusiastic,  but  which  you,  mother, 
Christian  mother  that  you  are,  will  appreciate. 
I  looked  into  the  future,  far  down  the  lapse  of 
years,  and  again  I  heard  the  opening  words  of 
the  Church  service: — 'The  Lord  is  in  his  holy 
temple;'  not  spoken,  as  then,  to  one  weak,  trem 
bling  woman,  amid  (hat  vast  solitude,  but  read 
in  the  Indian  tongue,  to  a  Christianized  Indian 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  33 

congregation,  within  the  walls  of  a  church,  by 
a  faithful  and  self-denying  missionary ;  and 
then  came  the  thought  which  thrilled  me  as 
with  an  electric  touch,  'Why  may  not  my  own 
little  Herbert  be  this  very  missionary?'  From 
my  knees  I  fell  prostrate  upon  the  ground,  and 
sent  up  the  cry, — 

"O,  my  Father,  grant  me  but  this  happiness, 
and  in  comparison  with  it  all  that  I  have  suffer 
ed  these  long,  long  years,  will  seem  indeed  but 
'  a  light  affliction  which  was  but  for  a  moment.' 

"  Words,  my  dear  sister,  are  too  feeble  to  ex 
press  to  you  my  enjoyment  of  that  service. 
What  holy  memories  it  awakened !  how  it  car 
ried  me  back  into  the  long-gone  but  well-re 
membered  past! — to  the  village  church  with  its 
little  congregation,  and  our  loving  fatheV  with 
his  eye  wandering  now  and  then  from  the  sa 
cred  page  which  he  wras  reading,  to  his  little 
twin  daughters  in  the  pew  right  before  him. 
Long  years  have  passed  since  then,  but  those 
old,  familiar  words  touched  a  chord  which,  amid 
the  jarring  troubles  and  sorrows  of  my  present 
life,  vibrated  sweetly  and  pleasantly  with  a 
strain  of  my  early  home. 


34  JJESSIE     MELVILLE. 

"  "Worn  mid  weary  with  life's  pilgrim uge,  how 
do  I  long  once  more  to  use  that  liturgy;  to 
join  my  voice  with  that  of  others  in  entreating 
the  forgiveness  of  our  'Almighty  and  most  mer 
ciful  Father !'  My  desolation  seems  complete, 
and  I  feel  that  I  am  indeed  an  orphan  when 
alone  on  my  knees  I  say,  'Our  Father,'  and 
know  that  there  is  no  human  being  to  unite 
with  me  in  my  prayer. 

"From  the  day  on  which  in  baptism  I  con 
secrated  my  child  to  the  service  of  God,  until 
he  was  taken  from  me,  six  months  afterwards,  I 
devoted  all  my  energies  to  his  instruction.  I 
tried  faithfully  and  with  prayer  to  imprint  upon 
his  young  memory  gospel  truths,  and  to  touch 
his  infant  heart  and  enlist  his  affections  by  sto 
ries  of  his  Saviour's  love ;  and  although  he  was 
altogether  too  young  to  understand  exactly 
what  I  meant,  still  I  tried  to  familiarize  him 
with  the  thought  that  he  did  not  belong  to  me — 
that  I  had  given  him  away  to  his  heavenly 
Father,  and  that  He  wanted  him  when  he 
grew  to  be  a  man,  to  tell  the  Indians  about 
Jesus  Christ  who  died  for  them.  Those  six 
months  were  the  least  miserable  porli<>n  of  my 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  35 

married  life.  My  whole  soul  was  absorbed  ill 
training  my  little  missionary  boy;  but  when  in 
one  dark  hour  all  my  purposes  were  so  cruelly 
frustrated,  and  my  child  taken  away  from  the 
holy  influences  and  guardianship  of  a  mother's 
love,  and  exposed  to  all  the  horrors  of  heathen 
ish  vice,  my  faith  wavered  and  faltered,  and  for 
a  while  I  saw  in  this  dispensation  not  the  chas 
tening  of  a  loving  Father,  but  the  stern  dis 
pleasure  of  an  angry  Judge,  visiting  me  for  the 
grievous  sin  of  my  y&uth.  Now  and  then  a 
thought  steals  into  my  soul  like  a  messenger 
from  heaven,  but  my  trembling  heart  fears  to 
take  hold  of  it,  for  it  seems  too  full  of  comfort, 
and  I  am  well  assured  that  there  is  for  me  no 
more  comfort  or  rest  this  side  the  grave. 

"  I  know  that  God  works  in  a  mysterious 
way,  and  that  it  is  not  often  that  we  can  find 
a  clue  by  which  to  trace  his  dispensations ;  but 
I  have  sometimes  thought,  that,  perhaps,  He  has 
chosen  this  very  way,  unpropitious  as  it  seems, 
to  prepare  my  child  for  his  missionary  work ; 
perhaps  He  has,  in  his  providence,  placed  him 
where  he  will  most  thoroughly  learn  the  lan 
guage  and  character  and  customs  of  the  people 


36  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

whom  he  is  hereafter  to  enlighten.  But  then 
comes  the  thought :  who  is  to  enlighten  aud 
educate,  and  Christianize  him?  who  is  to  teach 
him  that  vice  and  crime,  revenge  and  robbery, 
deceit  and  cunning  are  not  right  in  the  sight 
of  God,  and  praiseworthy  among  men  ?  and,  be 
wildered  and  broken-hearted,  I  seem  to  have 
neither  faith  nor  hope  left.  I  wish  that  I  could 
have  one  letter  of  sympathy  and  love  from  you, 
but  no  tidings  of  you  can  reach  me  in  this  In 
dian  waste,  where  there  *is  no  post-office  within 
a  hundred  miles.  A  chance  traveller,  a  poor 
and  ignorant  man,  sought  shelter  last  night  in 
my  cabin,  and  has  promised  to  put  this  letter 
in  the  mail  at  the  first  town  that  he  reaches. 

"  I  have  written  to  you,  my  sister,  at  great 
length,  and  thus  to  pour  out  my  heart  has 
been  a  great  relief,  even  although,  while  I  write, 
the  thought  has  more  than  once  suggested  it 
self,  that,  perhaps,  at  this  very  moment  you 
may  be  in  the  spirit-world,  whose  bliss  can 
never  be  marred  by  tidings  of  human  woe. 
Life  is  a  heavy  burden  to  me,  and  but  for  my 
little,  helpless  babe,  whom  I  call  Mary  Melville, 
for  you,  how  should  I  long  to  flee  away  and  be 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  37 

at  rest!  And  yet  I  do  not  murmur.  Even  in 
my  most  wicked  and  rebellious  hours,  I  have 
realized  that  my  life  of  sorrow  was  but  a 
righteous  retribution  for  my  sin,  but  I  have 
learned,  long  since,  patiently  to  wait  for,  in  an 
other  world,  the  mercy  which  I  no  longer  hope 
to  receive  in  this.  If  my  sin  can  only  be  for 
given,  and  washed  away  there,  I  am  content  to 
suffer  here.  Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  my  best- 
beloved  sister.  I  feel  that  this  is  the  last  earth 
ly  communication  we  shall  ever  have.  There 
but  remains  for  me  the  constant  prayer  and  the 
precious  hope  that  we  shall  be  re-united  in 
that  world  where  the  fear  of  separation  shall 
never  mar  the  enjoyment  of  full,  and  perfect, 
and  eternal  intercourse. 

"Ever  pray  for  your  broken-hearted  sister, 

"  JENNIE." 

"INDIAN  TERRITORY,  May,  1832." 

The  perusal  of  this  long  letter,  so  far  from 
enlightening  Bessie's  ignorance,  only  left  her  in 
a  maze  of  bewilderment,  with  just  enough  infor 
mation  to  awaken  new  conjectures.  She  only 
learned  that  she  had  once  had  an  aunt,  a  twin 
sister  of  her  mother,  who  had  been  very  unhap 


38  BESSIE    MELVILLK. 

pily  married,  and  whose  lieart  seemed  stung  by 
bitter  remorse  for  some  youthful  sin ;  but  what 
that  sin  was,  what  she  was  doing,  so  far  remov 
ed  from  civilization,  why  she  did  not  return 
to  her  sister  whom  she  loved  so  much,  all  tlic.-e 
were  mysteries  which  the  letter  did  not  solve. 
It  did  not  even  reveal  any  name  for  her  aunt, 
except  that  of  Jennie,  and  she  at  once  conclud 
ed  that  her  Bister  was  called  for  her.  But  tlu-n 
her  mother's  strange  silence  with  regard  to  this 
sister  whom  she  loved  well  enough  to  perpetu 
ate  her  name  in  the  family,  was  what  Bessie 
could  not  at  all  comprehend.  She  did  not 
deem  it  strange  that  in  her  thoughtless  child 
hood  she  had  never  heard  the  sad  story,  but 
she  did  wonder,  that  during  the  past  three 
years,  while  she  was  verging  towards  woman 
hood,  and  the  constant  companion  of  her  de 
clining  mother,  that  mother's  lips  should  have 
been  on  this  subject  so  closely  sealed.  She 
diligently  searched  all  the  letters  contained  in 
both  packages,  but  they  threw  no  more  light  on 
the  mystery.  They  had  all  been  written  pre 
viously  to  this,  and  all  breathed  the  same  sad 
strain  of  sin  and  suffering,  and  yet  were  per- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  o9 

vaded  by  the  sweetest  spirit  of  Christian  sub 
mission  and  penitence.  Bessie  looked  at  the 
date,  and  read  1832.  Eighteen  years  ago, 
thoiv/ht  she.  Doubtless  her  heavy  burden  has 
ION£  since  worn  away  her  strength,  and  at  last 
she  rests  quietly  in  the  grave.  My  mother  and 
her  t)vin  sister  are  once  more  together  in  the 
t'pirit-world. 

She  was  now  too  thoroughly  excited  to  think 
of  sleep.  She  felt  wearied  and  exhausted,  but 
longed  for  day  to  dawn,  that  she  might  reveal 
to  Mrs.  Kennedy  the  night's  disclosures,  and,  as 
she  was  her  mother's  most  intimate  friend,  she 
hoped  that  from  her  she  might  possibly  gather 
the  full  details  of  what  was  only  darkly  hinted 
at  in  this  singular  letter. 

Before  seeking  her  bed  she  went  to  the  win 
dow,  and  drew  aside  the  curtain.  The  moon 
was  shining  brightly,  but  in  the  east  were  the 
faint  but  unmistakable  gleams  of  the  curly 
dawn.  Bessie  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  but 
tried  in  vain  to  sleep.  Tumultuous  thoughts  and 
busy  conjectures  whirled  rapidly  through  her 
brain ;  and,  in  her  impatient  anxiety,  she  heard 
with  pleasure,  first  the  cock-crowing  which  an- 


•10  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

nounced  the  approach  of  dawn,  and  then  the 
sounds  of  awakening  life  in  the  household  be 
low. 

At  the  summons  of  the  morning  bell,  she 
sprang  eagerly  from  her  bed,  and  was  the  first 
in  the  room  at  family  prayers. 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  41 


CHAPTER    III. 

"Will  the  stork,  intending  rest, 
On  the  billo\v  build  his  nest? 
Will  the  bee  demand  his  store 
From  the  bleak  and  bladeless  shore? 
Man  alone,  intent  to  stray, 
Ever  turns  from  wisdom's  way,  / 

Lays  up  wealth  in  foreign  land, 
Sows  the  sea  and  ploughs  the  sand." 
EDWARD  MORE. 

MRS.  KENNEDY  watclied  Bessie  with  the  ten 
derness  and  solicitude  of  a  mother.  There  were 
many  things  which  conspired  to  attach  her 
warmly  to  her  young  charge.  Sympathy  with 
her  sorrow,  and  the  fact  that  she  had  been  en 
trusted  to  her  by  a  dying  mother,  would  have 
been  sufficient  to  enlist  her  affections ;  but  Mrs. 
Kennedy  loved  Bessie  chiefly  for  herself;  be 
cause  there  was  much  in  her  character  that  was 
lovely  and  attractive.  She  was,  in  many  re 
spects,  the  same  Bessie  of  former  years — full  of 

ardor  and  impulse,   excitable   and  affectionate ; 

4* 


42  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

but  the  rushing  impetuosity  which  in  childhood 
sought  only  present  gratification,  regardless  of 
consequences,  was  now  under  the  restraint  and 
guidance  of  Christian  principle,  while  the  warm 
hearted  affectionateness  of  her  nature,  which  was 
ever  gushing  out  in  caresses  upon  her  mother, 
Jennie,  the  bird,  and  the  lamb,  was  now  subdued 
by  religion  into  a  glowing  and  fervent  devotion 
to  her  Saviour,  and  into  a  more  quiet,  but  none 
the  less  sincere,  love  for  her  human  friends. 

Her  wandering  eye  and  restless  manner  im 
mediately  attracted  Mrs.  Kennedy's  attention ; 
but  she  was  too  well  acquainted  with  Bessie's 
temperament  to  be  surprised  that  the  last  night's 
employment  should  have  thus  excited  her.  All 
efforts  to  draw  her  into  conversation  were  un 
availing,  and,  silent  and  abstracted,  her  thoughts 
seemed  busy  with  something  far  away.  As 
soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  she  said: 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Kennedy,  come  to  my  room 
at  your  very  earliest  convenience.  I  wish  par 
ticularly  to  see  you  alone  for  a  little  while." 

"  My  '  very  earliest  convenience'  would  be 
this  minute,  Bessie,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  smil 
ing,  "if  I  did  not  think  that  a  walk  in  the 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  43 

bracing  air  this  morning  would  be  much  Letter 
for  you  than  a  long  talk  with  me  in  a  close 
room.  So,  if  you  will  get  your  bonnet,  I  will 
call  "Willie,  and  as  soon  as  you  return  you  will 
tind  me  at  your  disposal." 

"jSTo,  Mrs.  Kennedy,  I  want  to  see  and  speak 
to  you,  not  to  Willie,  this  morning." 

"  Well,  then,  Bessie,  I  myself  will  be  your  es 
cort,  if  you  prefer  my  company  to  Willie's. 
We  will  walk  down  in  the  grove,  and  our  con 
versation  there  will "  be  quite  as  private  as  with 
in  your  own  room.  Indeed,  my  dear  child," 
she  added,  as  Bessie  shook  her  head,  "you  sadly 
need  exercise,  and  the  state  of  excitement,  in 
which  you  have  been  for  these  past  few  weeks, 
has  left  its  impress  upon  your  health  and  ap 
pearance.  Remember,  my  child,  that  it  is  not 
right  for  you  thus  to  indulge  your  feelings.  It 
is  not  thus  that  a  Christian  child  ought  to  re 
ceive  a  Father's  chastening.  He  designs  that 
you  shall  deeply  feel  your  loss,  but  He  does 
not  mean  that  health,  duty,  and  every  thing 
shall  be  sacrificed  to  the  indulgence  of  your 
sorrow." 

"Indeed,   my   dear   Mrs.  Kennedy,"  solemnly 


44  BESSIE    MELVILLK. 

replied  the  young  girl,  "  I  sincerely  wish  to  do 
what  is  rig! it,  and  I  do  try  very  hard  to  bear 
my  bereavement  as  a  Christian  child  ought  to 
do.  Only  come  with  me  now,  and  afterwards  I 
will  do  any  thing,  or  be  any  thing,  or  go  any 
where,  that  you  think  right." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  said  no  more,  but  followed 
Bessie  into  her  room,  and  quietly  seated  her 
self.  Bessie  unlocked  the  cabinet,  and,  without 
a  word  of  explanation,  placed  in  Mrs.  Kennedy's 
hands  the  old  and  faded  letter,  and  then  went 
to  the  window  which  looked  out  upon  the  church 
yard,  as  if  to  subdue  her  restless  impatience  by 
looking  at  those  silent  graves,  whose  quiet  sleep 
ers  had  long  since  forgotten  the  anxieties  and 
turmoil  of  this  busy  world.  Mrs.  Kennedy  was, 
from  the  first,  deeply  absorbed.  She  read  on 
hurriedly,  breathlessly,  to  the  end,  and  when  she 
had  finished,  turned  the  pages  over  and  o\er, 
reading  here  and  there  a  paragraph  as  if  the 
letter  possessed  a  fascination  which  she  could 
not  resist. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  at  last  burst 
forth  from  Bessie's  lips. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  with  the  dec})- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  45 

cst  feeling,  "that  I  have  at  last  heard  some 
thing,  sad  though  it  is,  of  Jennie  Herbert,  the 
gay,  thoughtless,  but  warm-hearted  Jennie,  the 
best  beloved  friend  *of  my  early  youth." 

"  Oh  !  then  you  knew  her ! — it  is  not  all  a 
dream,"  exclaimed  Bessie.  "Tell  me  all  about 
her;  tell  me  what  was  her  grievous  sin.  "Why 
did  she  go  to  that  far-off  country?  why  did  not 
my  mother  ever  tell  me  about  her?  is  she  liv 
ing  yet?  Please,  Mrs.  Kennedy,  tell  me  all 
about  her." 

"Sit  down  by  me,  Bessie,  and  be  calm,  my 
child,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  of  your 
aunt.  Whether  she  is  now  living  or  dead,  I 
cannot  tell,  since,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I 
have  heard  from  her  only  once  before  in  thirty 
years.  All  that  I  can  tell  you  of  her,  is  what 
she  was  in  the  spring-time  of  her  youth,  when 
she  was  the  brightest,  happiest  being  I  ever 
saw. 

"The  twin  sisters,  Mary  and  Jennie  Herbert, 
your  mother  and  aunt,  were  the  only  children 
of  your  grandfather,  and  the  pride  and  pets  of 
the  village.  The  hour  that  made  him  a  father 
deprived  him  of  his  wife,  and  left  him  alone  and 


46  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

unassisted  to  rear  two  infant  daughters.  lie 
made  it  the  study  of  his  life  to  be  to  those 
children  both  father  and  mother ;  and  though 
naturally  of  a  refined  and  delicate  organization, 
yet  this  constant  effort  so  softened  his  whole 
manner  and  bearing,  that  it  was  perfectly  won 
derful  that  the  stern  nature  of  man  could  have 
become  so  nearly  akin  to  that  of  the  gentler 
sex.  Those  children  were  seldom  out  of  his 
sight.  In  his  pastoral  visits  they  often  accom 
panied  him,  in  the  nurse's  arms,  before  they 
could  walk ;  and  he  was  frequently  heard  to  say 
that  he  could  not  half  preach  liis  sermon,  un 
less  in  the  rector's  pew,  right  in  front  of  him, 
his  eye  could  rest  on  those  baby  faces.  Thus 
these  children  grew  up,  the  very  light  of  his 
life,  the  constant  thought  of  his  heart.  They 
were  so  much  alike  that  no  one  could  distin 
guish  them  except  the  father;  but  he  had  so 
carefully  studied  their  every  movement  and  ex 
pression,  that  he  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  mo 
ment.  They  were  never  sent  to  school,  and  yet 
your  own  knowledge  of  your  mother  will  assuiv 
you  how  thoroughly  and  carefully  they  were 
educated.  lie  used  t<>  lay  his  hand  affectionately 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  47 

upon  their  young  heads,  as  they  stood  beside 
him,  and  laughingly  tell  them  that  'nobody  else 
should  ever  have  the  pleasure  of  teaching  them; 
that  his  twin  rose-buds  should  not  waste  their 
freshness  and  fragrance  upon  any  body  except 
their  old  father.' 

"  Poor  old  man !"  she  murmured,  "  how  lie 
was  repaid !" 

"Go  on,  go  on,  Mrs.  Kennedy,"  impatiently 
implored  Bessie. 

"I  have  said,"  she  resumed,  "that  the  sisters 
were  wonderfully  alike  in  appearance,  but  the 
resemblance  did  not  extend  to  the  disposition 
and  character.  Your  mother,  though  much 
more  impulsive  then  than  she  was  in  after  life, 
when  she  had  been  severely  schooled  by  afflic 
tion,  was  always  gentler  than  her  sister,  and 
more  under  the  influence  of  religious  princi 
ple.  The  first  real  grief  your  grandfather  ever 
experienced  with  them  was,  when  your  mother 
was  confirmed,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  while  her 
sister  positively  refused  to  ratify  her  baptismal 
vows.  It  was  a  sore  trouble  to  their  father.  He 
said  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  line  of  separation 
had  been  drawn  between  those  two,  who  ought 


48  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

to   have   been,   through   life,   linked   together  in 
heart  and  hand,  in  principle  and   action. 

"Your  aunt  was  the  merriest,  most  happy 
hearted  being  I  ever  saw.  She  was  devoted  tc 
her  father  and  sister,  and  yet  in  her  thoughtless 
ness  was  constantly  grieving  them.  All  her  faults 
seemed  to  originate  in  an  uncontrollable  impul 
siveness  of  temperament,  which  led  Jier  to  act 
without  a  moment's  thought,  and  then,  in  the 
leisure  of  after  hours,  sincerely  to  bewail  the 
evil  consequences  of  her  rashness.  This  very 
characteristic,  unrestrained,  was  the  cause  of  the 
fatal  step  of  her  life.  It  was  the  one  great 
fault  of  her  character;  but  it  was  enough  to 
mar  its  whole  beauty,  and  to  wreck  her  hap 
piness.  And  yet,  with  this  fault  so  glaring  that 
every  body  was  aware  of  it,  she  was,  notwith 
standing,  universally  beloved.  Sometimes  it  as 
sumed  so  attractive  a  form,  in  the  outgushings 
of  her  ardent  and  affectionate  nature,  that  it 
seemed  rather  an  ornament  than  a  blemish  to 
her  character,  and  her  bright  face,  her  joyous 
ringing  laugh,  her  cloudless,  sunny  heart,  on 
which  no  shadow  ever  rested,  made  her  a  univer 
sal  favorite. 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  49 

"As  to  myself,  I  loved  her  passionately.  My 
own  quiet,  sober  spirit  never  seemed  to  kindle 
into  any  thing  like  enthusiasm  unless  fired  by 
contact  with  hers ;  and  it  was  only  when 
viewed  through  the  medium  of  her  glowing 
imagination,  that  the  pathway  of  life  seemed  to 
me  to  be  strown  with  flowers. 

"It  was  when  the  girls  were  eighteen  years 
old,  that  two  young  officers  of  the  army  came 
to  spend  the  summer  in  our  quiet  village.  Be 
tween  one  of  them  and  your  aunt  there  soon 
sprang  up  a  violent  attachment,  characterized 
by  her  usual  impetuosity.  Sprightly  and  agree 
able,  he  yet  seemed  too  thoughtless  and  frivo 
lous  for  your  grandfather  to  be  willing  to  en 
trust  his  child's  happiness  to  his  keeping;  and, 
gently  and  affectionately,  yet  very  earnestly,  he 
pleaded  that  she  would  pause  and  think,  before 
she  took  a  step  on  which  depended  the  happi 
ness  of  her  whole  life. 

"  One  evening,  when  Jennie  returned  from  a 
walk  with  this  young  man,  she  entered  the  par 
lor,  where  she  found  her  father  sitting  alone, 
gazing  very  intently  and  absently  out  of  the 

window.     She  approached  him  silently  from  *be- 
5 


50  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

hind,  and  laying  her  hands  upon  his  silvered 
head,  she  said — 

"'And  what  is  papa  thinking  so  earnestly 
about?' 

"The  old  man  drew  her  to  him,  and  seated 
her  on  his  lap,  and,  passing  his  arm  lovingly 
around  her  waist,  said — 

" '  I  have  been  thinking,  my  daughter,  upon 
the  vanity  and  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of  even 
the  very  best  earthly  blessings.  I  have  always 
believed,  that  if  there  were  any  thing  here  akin 
to  heaven,  any  thing  whose  purity  had  been 
scarcely  sullied  by  the  taint  of  sin,  it  was  the 
affections  of  home;  and  therefore  from  the  ties 
which  bind  my  old  heart  to  my  precious  chil 
dren,  I  did  expect  to  realize  happiness.' 

"He  paused  an  instant,  and,  as  the  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks,  he  added  earnestly: 

"'Jennie,  I  am  not  selfish  in  my  love  for 
you.  God  knows  that  if  there  is  any  one  thing 
that  I  do  desire  above  all  others,  it  is  that  you 
may  be  happy,  both  here  and  hereafter;  and 
this  assurance  I  would  gladly  purchase  at  any 
personal  sacrifice.  It  is  not  because  my  heart 
would  be  sad  and  my  home  desolate,  that  I  im- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  51 

plore  you  not  to  many  this  man.  You  will 
not,  you  cannot  be  happy  with  him.  Never 
can  I  consent  to  commit  you  to  the  care  of 
any  man  who  has  not  the  fear  of  God  before 
his  eyes,  who  does  not  recognize  Him  in  His 
providence  and  reverence  His  commandments. 
Take  care,  oh,  take  care,  my  precious  child,  lest 
through  a  life  of  misery,  these  words  of  your 
father  ring  like  a  knell,  night  and  day,  in  your 
ears:  'Never,  never  marry  any  but  a  God 
fearing  man !' 

"  Jennie  was  entirely  overcome  by  her  fa 
ther's  earnest,  solemn  tones,  and,  putting  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  she  passionately  protested 
that  she  loved  him  better  than  all  the  world 
besides,  and  never  would  marry  any  body  with 
out  his  full  and  hearty  approval:  and,  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  she  was  as  sincere 
in  her  protestations  as  he  was  confiding  in  her 
promises. 

"Two  days  afterwards,  without  one  loving 
word  of  farewell  for  father  or  sister,  your  aunt 
left  her  childhood's  home.  Not  a  line  could  be 
found  to  intimate  why  she  left,  whither  she  was 
going,  or  whether  she  would  ever  return. 


52  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

"The  whole  village  was  electrified.  Every 
body  loved  your  grandfather  devotedly,  and 
every  body  was  saddened  by  his  heavy  blow, 
but  none  felt  that  they  had  the  right  to  intrude 
upon  the  sacredness  of  such  grief  as  that,  ex 
cept  my  mother,  who  had  been  Mrs.  Herbert's 
most  intimate  friend,  and,  after  her  death,  the 
sympathizer  in  all  your  grandfather's  troubles, 
and  the  counsellor  of  his  children.  For  three 
days  and  nights  he  sat  unmoved  in  his  chair, 
and  seemed  turned  to  stone.  He  asked  no  ques 
tions,  recognized  no  one,  aid  not  even  notice 
his  other  child,  who,  with  the  unselfishness 
which  was  always  her  peculiar  characteristic, 
forgot  her  own  grief  in  the  vain  effort  to  arouse 
lier  father. 

"At  length  Sunday  morning  dawned,  and,  to 
the  amazement  of  every  one,  he  left  his  chair, 
prepared  himself,  took  his  hat  and  cane,  and 
had  actually  reached  the  door  before  any  one 
could  realize  what  his  intentions  were.  My 
mother  followed  him,  now  thoroughly  convinced 
that  what  she  had  feared  was  indeed  true — that 
his  reason  was  gone.  She  asked  him  where  he 
was  going :  he  replied,  '  To  church.'  She  ex 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  58 

postulated  with  him,  and  represented  his  phys 
ical  inability  to  preach.  To  this  he  faintly  re 
plied  : — 

" '  I  am  not  going  to  preach ;  I  cannot  dc 
that ;  but  oh !  I  want  to  read  that  Service.  This 
grief  will  kill  me  if  it  stays  pent  up  in  my 
bosom,  and  it  will  be  a  blessed  relief  to  me 
to  cry,— 

"'That  it  may  please  Thee  to  defend  all  who 
are  desolate  and  oppressed,  and  to  hear  my 
people  say,  with  full  hearts, — 

"  '  "VVe  beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord.' 

" '  Let  me  alone.     I  must  go.' 

"Never  while  I  live  can  I  forget  that  Sunday 
Service ;  it  is  more  deeply  impressed  upon  my 
memory  than  any  event  of  my  after  life.  The 
church  was  crowded,  not  with  the  idle  and  cu 
rious,  but  with  sincere  worshippers,  who  brought 
in  to-  the  sanctuary  that  day,  as  they  do  on  a 
funeral  occasion,  hearts  melted  with  sympathy  at 
human  grief,  as  well  as  hushed  into  reverence 
with  the  thought :  '  The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  tem 
ple.' 

"Your  grandfather  came  into  the  chancel,  and 
as  the  poor  old  man  knelt  to  implore  heavenly 


54  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

assistance,  a  suppressed  sob  here  and  there 
throughout  the  church  was  the  only  sound  to 
break  the  solemn  stillness. 

"The  opening  sentences  and  the  exhortation 
were  scarcely  audible,  and  many  feared  that  his 
strength  would  give  way,  and  he  would  have  to 
be  borne  from  the  church.  But  in  the  Confes 
sion,  his  voice  was  distinctly  heard,  and  clearly 
and  solemnly  came  the  words  of  the  Declaration 
of  Absolution.  Then  there  was  a  pause,  and 
presently  his  voice,  feeble  and  quivering,  was 
again  heard :  '  Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven ;' 
but  when  he  came  to  the  petition,  '  Thy  will  be 
done,'  it  went  up  to  heaven  with  a  piteous  wail 
of  mingled  agony  and  submission,  that  stilled 
the  heart  of  every  body  who  heard  it.  Never 
can  I  forget  it.  It  rings  in  my  ears  this  very 
minute,  and  it  proved  to  be  the  cry  of  a  bro 
ken  heart. 

"  From  that  moment  there  was  no  trace  of  deep 
emotion  either  in  his  voice  or  manner.  He  -ead 
the  whole  service  as  he  always  did,  slowly,  dis 
tinctly,  and  reverently,  and  just  before  the  Gen 
eral  Thanksgiving,  again  he  paused  an  instant, 
as  if  to  nerve  himself  anew,  and  then  were  heard 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  55 

the  words  of  that  touching  prayer  for  persons 
in  affliction : — 

" '  O  merciful  God,  and  heavenly  Father,  who 
hast  taught  us  in  thy  holy  Word  that  Thou  dost 
not  willingly  afflict  or  grieve  the  children  of 
men ;  look  with  pity,  we  beseech  Thee,  upon  the 
sorrows  of  thy  servants,  for  whom  our  prayers 
are  desired.  In  thy  wisdom  Thou  hast  seen  fit 
to  visit  them  with  trouble,  and  to  bring  distress 
upon  them.  Remember  them,  O  Lord,  in  mer 
cy  ;  sanctify  thy  fatherly  correction  to  them ;  en 
due  their  souls  with  patience  under  their  afflic 
tion,  and  with  resignation  to  thy  blessed  will; 
comfort  them  with  a  sense  of  thy  goodness ; 
lift  up  thy  countenance  upon  them  and  give 
them — give  them — '  then  with  a  burst  of  agony 
the  old  man  screamed,  '  O,  my  Father,  give  them 
peace.' 

"  A  deep  groan,  a  heavy,  fall,  and  the  broken 
hearted  father  had  exchanged  his  burden  of 
earthly  sorrow  for  that  peace  which  was  the  last 
word  upon  his  lips,  that  'peace  which  passeth 
all  understanding.' 

"It  might  have  been  expected  that  a  scene 
of  wild  confusion  and  tumult  would  have  fol- 


66  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

lowed,  but  it  was  not  so.  Hushed  and  awe- 
stricken,  that  congregation  silently  waited  in 
their  places  until  some  of  them  nearest  the 
chancel  hastened  to  see  if  life  were  indeed  ex 
tinct.  And  when  they  found  that  the  pastor 
whom  they  loved  and  reverenced,  who  had  for 
twenty  years  counselled  them  in  difficulties,  en 
lightened  their  ignorance  and  comforted  their 
sorrows,  was  indeed  dead,  in  mournful  groups 
they  gathered  around  the  chancel-rail,  to  take 
one  last  farewell  look  at  those  familiar  and  well- 
beloved  features. 

"His  long  silver  hair,  and  his  face  blanched 
by  sorrow,  even  before  death  had  left  its  impress 
upon  it,  were  sweetly  in  harmony  with  the  spot 
less  lawn  of  his  priestly  vestments,  and  as  he  lay 
in  calm  repose  beneath  that  altar  where  he  had 
so  long  ministered,  he  was  indeed  a  fitting  rep 
resentation  of  that  peace  which  he  had  so  earn 
estly  implored." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  paused,  and  Bessie  exclaimed, 
with  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes : — 

"No  wonder  that  my  aunt  is  the  victim  of 
such  terrible  remorse  1  "Well  may  she  remern- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  57 

ber    '  the   grievous  sin  of  her  youth.'      Go  on, 
Mrs.  Kennedy ;  tell  me  all." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  resumed  : — 

"Three  days  afterwards,  your  grandfather  wag 
buried  amid  every  demonstration  of  heart-felt 
sorrow.  The  solemn  words  of  commitment  had 
just  been  spoken,  and  the  clods  were  falling 
heavily  upon  his  coffin,  when,  just  beyond  the 
dense  crowd  around  the  grave,  was  heard  a 
wild  and  bitter  cry.  Frantic  with  despair,  your 
aunt  rushed  into  the  scene.  She  reached  the 
open  grave,  and,  falling  beside  it,  the  tumult 
of  an  accusing  spirit  was  for  awhile  stilled  by 
the  oblivion  of  perfect  unconsciousness.  For 
many  hours  she  knew  nothing.  My  mother 
watched  beside  her;  and  I  have  heard  her  say 
that  the  expression  of  her  countenance,  even 
while  thus  unconscious,  was  frightful  to  behold. 
When  she  awoke  from  her  stupor,  her  beautiful 
brown  hair  was  blanched  as  white  as  silver 
and  her  once  smooth  and  sunny  brow  was 
ploughed  into  deep  furrows.  She  asked  for  her 
sister.  Your  mother  went  into  her  room,  and 
remained  with  her  several  hours,  and  the  next 
day  her  husband  took  her  away;  and  since 


58  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

then  I  have  never  heard  her  name  mentioned 
but  once." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  to  my  mother  during 
that  interview?"  asked  Bessie. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Kennedy ;  "  1 
never  heard  your  mother  allude  to  it." 

"  But  did  you  never  ask  my  mother  any  thing 
about  her?" 

"  Only  once,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "  At  the 
birth  of  your  sister,  when  I  asked  her  what  she 
intended  to  call  her,  and  she  replied,  'Jennie,' 
I  thought  I  might  venture  to  inquire  about  her 
sister ;  so  I  said :  '  Do  you  know  where  your  sis 
ter  is  now?' 

"  She  compressed  her  lips  with  an  expression 
of  pain,  and  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  brow, 
as  she  replied  with  an  effort, — 

"  '  It  is  several  years  since  I  have  heard  from 
her,  and  then  she  was  somewhere  in  the  In 
dian  territory  of  the  North-west.' 

"She  was  silent  a  few  minutes,  and  then, 
taking  my  hand  affectionately,  said, — 

"'Do  not  think,  my  dear  friend,  from  my 
silence  upon  this  subject,  that  I  deem  your  anx 
iety  to  know  my  sister's  fate  an  intrusive  curi- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  59 

osity.  You  know  that  1  never  have  recovered 
from  that  fearful  blow.  It  has  saddened  my 
whole  life,  and  for  years  I  have  made  it  a  Chris 
tian  duty  to  strive  against  those  terrible  memo 
ries.  I  cannot,  of  course,  blot  them  out.  They 
are  burned,  as  it  were,  into  my  very  being, 
and  the  most  I  can  do  is  to  strive  against  their 
so  gaining  the  ascendancy  over  all  other  feelings 
as  to  make  me  a  clog  upon  my  husband's  hap 
piness,  and  useless  to  this  child  which  God  has 
mercifully  given  me.  I  cannot  write  to  my  sis 
ter;  no  tidings  from  me  can  reach  her.  I  can 
not  forget  her,  and  God  knows  I  would  not  if 
I  could,  for  the  twin  play-mate  of  my  childhood, 
and  companion  of  my  youth,  is  still  as  dear  to 
me  as  my  own  soul.  But  I  desire  and  try  to 
leave  her  in  the  hands  of  an  all-merciful  God.' 
"  Here  the  conversation  dropped,  and  of  course 
I  never  again  alluded  to  the  friend  of  my  early 
years.  Poor  erring  child!  the  revelations  of 
this  sad  letter  are  a  powerful  commentary  upon 
her  father's  words  of  warning.  Doubtless  in  her 
hours  of  wretchedness  and  misery,  even  the 
depths  of  the  forest  have  rung  with  the  words 
which,  with  prophetic  voice,  he  pronounced  in 


60  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

her  ears  in  the  days  of  her  youth  and  inno 
cence :  'Never,  never  marry  any  but  a  God 
fearing  man.' " 

The  story  was  ended :  and,  forgetful  of  every 
thing  except  its  sad  details,  Mrs.  Kennedy  and 
Bessie  were  lost  in  thought.  They  sat  for  a 
long  while  in  unbroken  silence,  and,  at  last, 
Bessie  said, — 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  no  possible  way  of 
finding  out  if  my  aunt  is  still  alive.  The  Indian 
country  of  the  North-west  is  not  so  wild  and 
savage  as  it  was  eighteen  years  ago;  and  I  think 
that  if  suitable  measures  were  taken,  we  might 
at  least  discover  something  of  her  history." 

"No,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Kennedy,  "it  is 
worse  than  useless  to  indulge  so  vain  a  hope. 
The  very  fact  that  the  Indian  country  is  more 
accessible  to  the  white  man,  and  intercourse 
witli  it  so  much  more  practicable  than  it  was 
when  tin's  letter  was  written,  is  in  itself  a  proof 
that  your  aunt  must  be  dead.  If  she  would 
write  at  such  length  when  there  was  so  little 
probability  that  the  tidings  woukl  ever  reach 
your  mother,  it  is  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
she  would  now  be  silent,  when  she  might  expect 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  61 

with  certainty  that  her  letter  would  reach  its 
destination.  No:  I  am  certain  that  she  must 
be  dead." 

Mrs.  Kennedy  now  left  her,  and  Bessie  re 
sumed  her  search  through  the  cabinet.  She 
found  many  trifles  which  association  rendered 
valuable  to  her ;  and  one  compartment  was  filled 
with  papers,  which  she  immediately  recognized 
as  business  documents,  and  which  she  left  undis 
turbed.  She  found  nothing  more  that  referred 
to  her  aunt;  but  there  was  an  old-fashioned  mo 
rocco  case  which  contained  a  coarse  painting 
of  an  old  man,  with  long  gray  hair,  and  a 
countenance  radiant  with  love  and  benignity. 
She  ran  with  her  new-found  treasure  to  Mrs. 
Kennedy,  who  confirmed  her  supposition  that 
it  was  her  grandfather;  and  assured  her  that  it 
was  a  perfect  likeness.  She  said  that  in  the 
days  of  her  childhood  she  had  often  seen  Jen 
nie  take  it  in  both  hands  and  kiss  it,  and  say 
that  next  to  her  father  and  twin  sister,  she  loved 
this  picture  better  than  any  thing  in  the  world. 

"Poor  Jennie!"  sighed  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "How 
little  she  dreamed  in  those  days  of  sunny  child 
hood,  that  her  own  act  of  disobedience  wculd 
6 


62  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

forever  separate  her  from  the  old  father  whom 
she  then  loved  so  well;  that  she  would  live  to 
see  the  time  when,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  re 
morse,  she  would  long  to  blot  out  from  her  mem 
ory  those  features  which  she  then  never  grew 
tired  of  looking  upon.  I  have  never  seen  this 
miniature  since  his  death." 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  63 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"Do\vn,  slothful  heart!    How  darest  thou  say 

Call  not  so  oft  to  pray? 

****** 
Untired  is  He  in  mercy's  .task ; 
Then  tire  not  thou  to  ask. 
He  says  not,  'Yesterday  I  gave; 
Wilt  thou  for  ever  crave?' 
He  every  moment  waits  to  give; 
Watch  thou,  unwearied  to  receive." 
KEBLE. 

IN  all  tilings  pertaining  to  Bessie's  educa 
tion,  Mr.  Kennedy  endeavored  to  carry  gut  her 
mother's  designs,  and  yet,  in  some  instances,  he 
found  himself  compelled  to  disregard  her  known 
wishes.  He  knew  very  well  her  great  objection 
to  sending  Bessie  to  a  boarding-school,  and  yet, 
after  carefully  weighing  every  consideration,  he 
felt  obliged  to  place  her  in  one  of  these  insti 
tutions.  At  first  he  had  determined  that  she 
should  pursue  her  studies  with  him ;  but  a  few 
days'  effort  had  convinced  him  of  the  imprac- 


C4  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

ticability  of  this  plan,  for  the  pastoral  duties  of 
his  growing  parish  made  such  constant  demands 
upon  his  time,  that  he  was  even  obliged  to  give 
up  instructing  Willie,  and  had  reluctantly  de 
termined  to  send  him  away  to  school. 

In  the  selection  of  a  school  for  Bessie,  he 
had  exercised  his  veVy  best  judgment,  and  had 
chosen  one  in  the  neighborhood  of  one  of  oQr 
Southern  cities,  whose  pupils  never  exceeded 
twenty  in  number,  and  who,  under  the  care  of 
a  judicious  and  conscientious  minister  personally 
known  to  himself,  would  combine  with  the  ele 
ments  of  a  thorough  education,  those  Christian 
privileges,  without  which  all  education,  how 
ever  excellent  in  other  respects,  must  be  lament 
ably  Deficient. 

A  little  rural  church,  with  its  cross-mounted 
spire  and  ivy-clad  tower,  had  about  it  such  a 
home-like,  maternal  appearance,  that,  as  poor 
Bessie  looked  out  of  the  carriage-window  upon 
it,  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  her 
aching  heart  seemed,  for  the  first  time,  to  real 
ize  that  she  might  find  at  least  one  spot  where 
she  would  not  be  altogether  a  stranger,  where, 
though  surrounded  by  faces  strange  and  unfa 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  66 

miliar,   she    miglit  yet  bear   holy   words   whose 
every  accent  breathed  of  home. 

From  Mr.  Lester,  the  minister  and  principal, 
Mr.  Kennedy  received  a  cordial  welcome. 
Room-mates  at  the  Theological  Seminary,  they 
had  been  intimate  friends  in  early  youth,  had 
pursued  their  studies  together,  were  ordained 
deacons  at  the  same  time,  and  when  they  had 
been  last  together,  it  \vas  to  kneel,  side  by  side, 
to  be  admitted  to  the  holy  order  of  the  priest 
hood.  From  that  time,  though  following  the 
same  path  of  duty,  it  was  in  widely  different 
spheres ;  and  although  they  had  never  met 
since,  yet  a  constant  correspondence  had  kept 
their  memories  of  each  other  so  fresh  and  vivid, 
that  neither  seemed  able  to  realize  the  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  the  other.  Each  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  friend  whom  he  had 
last  seen  just  entering  upon  a  vigorous  man 
hood,  should  have  climbed  the  ascent  of  life, 
and  begun  to  descend  its  declivity,  and  re 
marked  with  surprise  the  silver  threads  ming 
ling  in  those  locks  which  he  remembered  glossy 
with  the  rich  lustre  of  youth. 

To  Mr.  Lester's  particular  care  Mr.  Kennedy 
0* 


66  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

committed  the  young  girl,  enlisting  his  sympa 
thies  by  acquainting  him  with  the  loneliness  of 
her  condition  and  begging  him,  as  far  as  it  was 
in  his  power,  to  cany  out  her  mothers  designs 
with  reference  to  her  education. 

When  Mr.  Kennedy  was  gone,  alone  in  the 
midst  of  strangers,  Bessie  felt  desolate  indeed. 
The  first  few  days  had  passed  wearily  enough. 
Listless  and  sad,  she  took  no  interest  in  any  of 
her  employments ;  but  Mr.  Lester  kindly  avoid 
ed  both  expostulation  and  reproof.  Satisfied, 
from  Mr.  Kennedy's  description  of  her  charac 
ter,  that  it  would  not  be  so  long,  but  that  her 
Christian  principle  would  eventually  triumph. 

The  girls  of  the  school  formed  a  happy  fam 
ily  circle,  and  harmony  and  good-will  seemed 
universally  to  prevail.  Every  day,  immediately 
after  breakfast,  they  were  summoned  by  the 
bell,  into  the  church,  for  morning  prayers. 
After  this  they  all  exercised  in  the  open  air 
for  an  hour;  then  they  went  into  school,  and 
nothing  was  thought  of  but  lessons  until  two 
o'clock,  when  they  were  dismissed.  Just  be 
fore  sunset  they  all  assembled  again  in  the 
church,  and  prayers  and  praises,  and  words  of 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  67 

Holy  Scripture,  were  tlie  last  rounds  winch  lin 
gered  upon  the  twilight  air  of  the  departing 
day. 

Among  those  bright  and  happy  faces  there 
was  one  upon  which  Bessie  loved  to  gaze.  Her 
countenance  was  radiant  as  if  a  sunbeam  had 
been  imprisoned  in  the  depths  of  her  laugh 
ter-loving  eyes ;  and  yet  there  was  so  much 
kindness  and  gentleness  in  her  manner,  that 
her  presence  seemed  always  surrounded  by  a 
genial  sunshine.  Bessie  was  from  the  first  at 
tracted  towards  her;  but  as  yet  she  felt  too  in 
different  and  lonely  to  care  to  make  acquaint 
ances,  and,  although  every  young  heart  was 
touched  by  the  sight  of  her  sad  countenance^, 
yet  none  felt  at  liberty  to  intrude  upon  the 
grief  of  the  young  stranger. 

It  was  her  first  Sunday  afternoon  away  from 
home.  In  all  her  hours  of  loneliness  during 
the  past  week,  she  had  looked  forward  to  this 
holy  day,  and  felt  that  in  the  Church  Service 
there  would  be  a  home  tie  which  would  make 
her  forget,  for  a  time,  that  she  was  a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land.  She  thought  that  in  the 
same  worship,  at  the  same  hour,  in  the  same 


OS  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

words,  she  could  overleap  the  abyss  of  separa 
tion,  and  be  at  home,  at  least  in  heart,  during 
all  the  Sunday  hours.  But  the  result  had  been 
very  different  from  her  anticipations.  Never 
had  her  desolation  seemed  so  complete  as  when, 
using  those  familiar  words,  she  looked  in  vain 
for  the  well-known  and  dearly-loved  faces  with 
which  those  words  were  so  intimately  associ 
ated.  Heart-sick  and  dispirited,  she  had  wan 
dered,  late  in  the  afternoon,  into  the  grove,  and 
her"  sad  thoughts  were  busy  in  picturing  the 
little  home  circle  that  was  then  gathered  around 
Mr.  Kennedy's  fire-side ;  and  she  wondered  if 
they  were  not  at  that  very  moment  talking  of 
tjie  absent  Bessie. 

A'  hand  was  gently  laid  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  a  kind  voice  said : — 

"  What  '  is  the  matter,  Bessie  ?  You  have 
looked  so  sad,  all  day,,  that  I  have  longed  to 
ask  you  if  you  had  heard  bad  news  from  home ; 
but  I  was  afraid  that  you  might  not  thank  a 
stranger  for  her  intrusive  sympathy." 

"I  do  thank  you,  Emma,  for  your  sympathy; 
for  if  ever  any  human  being  needed  it,  I  do. 
I  have  received  no  bad  news  from — " 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  69 

Tlie  word  "home"  died  unuttered  on  her 
lips,  and,  checking  herself,  her  eyes  filled,  and 
her  voice  trembled,  as  she  added: — 

"I  have  no  home." 

"Do  you  not  live  with  your  mother?"  rushed 
to  Emma's  lips;  but  before  she  spoke  the  words, 
a  glance  at  Bessie's  mourning-dress  restrained 
the  impulsive  question,  and  she  stopped  short 
without  a  word. 

But  Bessie  needed  no  words  to  interpret  Em 
ma's  thought,  and  said: — 

"  No,  Emma :  neither  home  nor  mother : — no, 
nor  father,  nor  brother,  nor  sister.  I  am  more 
than  an  orphan." 

"Poor  Bessie!"  said  Emma,  "how  I  do  pity 
you!  I  did  not  suppose  there  was  any  body 
in  the  world  so  young  as  you  are,  who  was  so 
utterly  friendless.  And  yet,  Bessie,  you  are  not 
friendless ;  you  may  not  have  relations,  but  you 
certainly  have  friends,  for  the  old  gentleman 
who  brought  you  here  seemed  to  love  you  as  a 
daughter." 

"Yes,  Emma,  he  is  very  much  attached  to 
me,  and  I  have  received  kindness  from  him  and 
his  family,  which  I  never  can  repay.  His  house 


'•0  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Las  been  my — I  mean  I  Lave  lived  \vitli  them 
ever  since  I  was  obliged  to  leave  my  own  Lome." 

"  WLat  is  Lis  name,  Bessie  ?" 

"He  is  Mr.  Kennedv,  tlie  rector  in  tlie  village 

*/    ' 

where  I  live.  He  Las  always  been  our  dear 
friend  as  well  as  pastor.  He  baptized  botli  my 
little  sister  and  myself,  and  buried  Ler,  my  fa- 
tLer,  and  my  motlier." 

"Tlien  you  once  Lad  a  sister,  Bessie?" 
"Yes,  Emma;  but  I  can  scarcely  realize  tLat 
she  was  indeed  my  sister.  SLe  was  so  pure 
and  Loly  a  cliild,  so  unlike  myself,  tLat  it  is 
Lard  to  believe  tLat  sLe  was  related  to  me  by 
tLe  ties  of  flesli  and  blood;  but  I  always  tliink 
of  Ler  as  a  little  ministering  angel,  sent  to  liglit- 
en  my  eartLly  Lome  witL  a  beam  from  Leaven, 
and  to  make  me  love  tLat  Loliness  of  wLicli  sLe 
was  so  beautiful  an  example." 

Emma  was  awed  by  tlie  subdued,  reverential 
tone  in  wLicli  Bessie  spoke.     SLe  felt  tLat  elie 
Lad  toucLed  a  sacred  cLord,  yet  sLe  longed  to 
know  more,  and  asked  almost  in  a  wliisper, — 
"Did  sLe  die  very  young,  Bessie?" 
"  SLe    went    to    Ler  Leavenly  Lome,   Emma, 
wLen  sLe  was  only  eleven  years  old  " 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  71 

Emma  Walton  was  young,  bright  and  b*»npy. 
In  her  brief  experience  of  life,  the  element  of 
sorrow  had  not  mingled,  and  though  possessing 
even  a  delicate  sensibility,  yet  she  could  not  at 
all  appreciate  the  feeling  which  prompted  Bessie 
to  shrink  from  uttering  the  wrord  "death,"  in 
connection  with  her  sister,  and  to  speak  rather 
of  her  having  gone  home.  But  she  only  wan 
dered  in  silence,  and,  afraid  of  being  intrusive, 
said  no  more. 

But  Bessie  was  not  long  silent.  She  had  found 
a  warm,  gushing  heart,  no  stranger  to  sympathy, 
though  it  might  be  to  sorrow.  Along  the  electric 
wire  of  memory,  her  thoughts  sped  back  to  her 
early  home,  and  she  poured  into  Emma's  eager 
ear  a  glowing  description  of  it.  She  talked  ear 
nestly,  hurriedly  of  her  mother  and  sister;  and 
tried  by  words  to  picture  them  to  Emma's  im 
agination,  but  at  last,  when  epithet  was  exhaust 
ed,  she  exclaimed,  as  she  drew  out  a  morocco 
case  and  pressed  a  spring, — 

"There,  Emma,  is  my  mother.  Look  at  her 
in  the  glory  of  youth  and  health.  That  is  the 
way  she  looked  when  Jennie  and  I  were  little 
children.  It  seems  long,  long  years  ago,  but 


72  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

yet  I  remember  well  how  we  used  to  gaze  ad 
miringly  upon  her  soft  white  brow,  her  beautiful 
hair,  the  delicate  bloom  upon  her  cheek,  and 
her  eyes — those  deep  blue  eyes,  whose  expres 
sion  no  artist-pencil  could  ever  transfer  to  ivory. 
Such  soft,  gentle,  loving  eyes  could  only  be  the 
windows  to  a  heart,  the  softest,  gentlest,  most 
loving,  that  ever  throbbed  in  a  human  bosom. 
Well  do  I  remember,  too,  how  our  childish  van 
ity  was  gratified,  as  we  frequently  gave  utterance 
to  our  belief  that  no  child  in  school  had  so  beau 
tiful  a  mother  as  ours. 

Bessie's  voice  fell  into  a  subdued  tone  as  she 
added,  "My  latest  recollections  of  her  do  not 
correspond  with  that  picture.  Sorrow,  sickness, 
and  suffering,  silvered  her  hair,  furrowed  her 
brow,  an'd  withered  the  roses  upon  her  check, 
but  oh,  Emma !  nothing  could  ever  dim  the  lus 
tre  of  those  eyes  which,  to-  the  very  last  moment 
of  her  life,  beamed  with  a  soft,  mild  radiance, 
which  seemed  more  akin  to  Heaven  than  to 
earth." 

Emma  gazed  silently  and  earnestly  upon,  the 
picture,  and,  as  she  handed  it  back  to  Bessie, 
said: — 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  73 

"  It.  certainly  is  a  most  beautiful  countenance, 
yet  I  have  seen  one  strikingly  like  it." 

"Where?"  asked  Bessie,  incredulously. 

"In  my  own  home,"  replied  Emma.  "We 
have  a  young  governess  there,  who  has  been 
with  us  a  year,  and  taught  me  until  I  came 
here  a  few  months  ago.  She  is  wonderfully 
like  this  miniature." 

"  Where  is  her  home,  Emma  ?" 

"I  do  not  know.  She  came  from. New  York 
to  us,  and  never  speaks  of  her  home  or  family. 
Father  and  mother  are  devoted  to  her,  and  so 
are  all  of  us;  for  she  is  very  gentle  and  lovely, 
and  then  she  is  withal  so  pretty,  that  a  person 
is  involuntarily  attracted  to  her.  In  the  very 
last  letter  I  received  from  •  home,  mother  was 
speaking  of  her,  and  regretting  that  with  regard 
to  her  early  associations  she  is  resolutely  silent. 
She  says  that,  notwithstanding  she  and  my  fa 
ther  are  so  warmly  attached  to  her,  and  do 
every  thing  in  their  power  to  make  our  home 
pleasant  to  her,  yet  they  are  convinced  that 
she  is  not  happy;  and,  from  her  silence  ija  re 
gard  to  her  early  life,  they  infer  that  there  is 
some  sorrow  connected  with  it,  which  has  thus 
7 


74  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

saddened  her.  !Now,  my  mother  is  the  kindest 
person  in  the  world,  and  believes  that  sympa 
thy  is  a  healer  of  all  kinds  of  trouble ;  and  it 
worries  and  annoys  her  that  Mary  will  not  let 
her  sympathize  in  her  sorrow,  whatever  it  may 
be." 

"What  is  her  name,  Emma?" 

"  Mary  Seymour,"  replied  Emma. 

"  Did  you  never  ask  her  any  thing  about  her 
childhood?" 

"Oh  yes,  often,"  replied  Emma.  "She  al 
ways  encouraged  me  to  make  a  companion  and 
friend  of  her;  and  at  her  very  first  introduc 
tion  into  our  family,  as  if  her  heart  yearned 
for  home  ties,  she  begged  that  we  would  not 
prefix  the  title  '  Miss'  to  her  name,  but  call  her 
simply,  Mary.  So  Lucy,  who  is  only  six,  and 
I,  *who  am  sixteen,  and  brother  Charles,  who 
is  twenty-one,  all  of  us,  call  her  Mary.  I  have 
several  times  presumed  upon  the  intimacy  which 
ehe  has  herself  encouraged,  and  asked  her  about 
her  childhood  and  her  home;  but  I  have  never 
been  able  exactly  to  decide  whether  my  ques 
tions  excite  more  sorrow  or  displeasure.  I  know, 
however,  that  I  have  never  succeeded  in  ob- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  VO 

taining  any  satisfactory  information;  she  lias 
only  told  me,  that  she  was  reared  by  an  aunt, 
but  did  not  live  happily  with  her,  and  as  soon 
as  she  was  seventeen  years  old  she  left  her  and 
became  a  governess." 

"How  old  is  she?"  inquired  Bessie. 

"About  nineteen,"  said  Emma.  "She  had 
been  a  governess  only  one  year  when  she  came 
to  us,  and  she  has  been  in  our  family,  just  a. 
year."  ^  *=> 

Just  then  the  clear,  ringing  tones  of  the  bell 
sounded  the  summons  to  church,  and*Emma 
exclaimed,  with  as  much  impatience  as  her 
amiable  disposition  ever  allowed  her  to  show : — 

"  There  it  is  again ! — the  first  sound  in  the 
morning  and  the  last  in  the  evening!  I  do 
get  so  tired  of  it.  Indeed,  Bessie,  it  is  my  only 
objection  to  the  school." 

Trained  as  Bessie  had  been  to  regard  church 
privileges  as  invaluable,  she  turned  upon  Emma 
a  face  in  which  surprise  and  sorrow  were  so 
strangely  blended,  that  her  new  friend  burst  into 
a  merry  laugh  as  she  said : — 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  have  I  done,  Bessie, 
to  make  vou  look  at  me  with  so  distressed  a 


76  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

countenance?  I  could  almost  imagine  that  I 
had  committed  some  great  crime,  or  uttered 
some  blasphemous  words,  from  the  surprise  and 
horror  written  upon  your  face." 

"I  want  you,  Emma,"  said  Bessie,  very  seri 
ously,  "to  take  all  that  back.  Your  warm 
hearted  sympathy  has,  in  one  short  hour,  made 
me  love  you  dearly,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  hear 
you  speak  in  that  way  about  going  to  church." 

"  Well,"  replied  Emma,  still  laughing,  "  if  it 
will  make  you  feel  any  more  comfortable  for 
me  to  recall  my  words,  I  will  do  so.  But  indeed, 
Bessie,  I  do  get  very  tired  of  hearing  that  same 
service  twice  every  day,  and  the  prayers  read 
out  of  a  book  besides.  It  seems  to  me  so  very 
formal ;  and  I  cannot  believe  that  either  minis 
ter  or  congregation  can  enter  with  much  heart 
into  the  same  old  routine,  whose  very  words  at 
last  fall  with  wearisome  monotony  upon  the  car." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Emma,  do  not,  I  implore  you, 
speak  so  of  God's  holy  Church,  and  of  a  Liturgy 
in  which  some  of  the  very  purest  spirits  that 
ever  lived  have  found  words  of  praise  exalted 
enough  for  their  highest  raptures,  and  peniten 
tial  confessions  contrite  enough  for  their  deepest 


BESSIE    M.ELVILLE.  /, 

humiliation.  Here  we  are  at  the  church  door; 
try  this  evening,  dear  Emma,  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  these  familiar  words,  and  after  service 
is  over,  come  with  me  and  let  us  talk  a  little 
about  your  objections  to  these  forms  of  prayer. 
It  pains  me  to  my  inmost  heart,  for  anybody  I 
love  to  speak  so  of  the  Church :  I  imagine  that 
I  feel  precisely  as  I  should  if  any  one  could  have 
the  heart  to  speak  disparagingly  to  me  of  my 
sainted  mother." 

Strangely  did  Bessie's  words  fall  upon  Emma's 
ear,  and  all  through  the  service  she  pondered, 
in  silent  wonder,  upon  the  strange  enthusiasm 
which  could  make  a  young  girl  regard  a  church 
with  something  of  the  same  respect  and  affec 
tion  that  she  felt  for  her  mother.  But  she  could 
not  understand  it,  and  at  last  accounted  for  it 
upon  the  supposition,  that  wTith  a  warm  impul 
sive  temperament,  Bessie's  yearning  affections 
when  her  mother  was  taken  from  her,  had  gone 
out  after  something  around  which  to  entwine, 
and  in  the  fervor  of  a  religious  enthusiasm  not 
yet  subsided,  she  had  fastened  them  upon  the 
Church  in  which  that  mother  had  lived  and  died. 

But  however  stronglv  convinced  she  was  that 


•|8  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Bessie's  attachment  to  her  Cliurcli  and  its  ser 
vices  would  not  outlast  the  fre.-liiR'S.^  of  her  grief, 
ehe  was  equally  assured  that  for  the  present,  at 
least,  it  was  sincere,  for  she  could  not  listen  to 
her  young  companion's  deep,  earnest  tones,  as  she 
engaged  in  the  service,  without  being  fully  per 
suaded  of  her  sincerity ;  and  when  it  was  all 
over,  and  Bessie  still  lingered  upon  her  knees, 
Emma  gazed  upon  her  with  a  feeling  of  awe  and 
admiration  which  she  had  never  before  felt  for 
a  religious  worshipper. 

Silently  and  reverently  they  left  the  church, 
and  walked  a  little  distance  without  a  word  be 
ing  spoken. 

At  last  Bessie  said: — 

"  Did  the  words  sound,  this  evening,  as  formal 
and  unmeaning  as  ever,  Emma?" 

"I  scarcely  know,  Bessie;  for  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  was  so  completely  absorbed  thinking 
about  the  last  remark  you  made  as  we  entered 
the  door,  that  I  could  not  attend  to  what  was 
going  on." 

"And  what  was  that,  Emma?" 

"That  it  pained  you  as  much  to  hear  the 
Church  disparaged,  as  you  imagine  it  would  to 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  79 

*  hear  your  sainted  mother  spoken  of  with  disre 
spect.  Do  yon  mean  me  to  understand,  Bessie, 
that  you  regard  your  Church  as  a  kind  of  moth 
er?" 

"  No ;  not  a  kind  of  mother,  Emma,  but  a 
real,  tender,  affectionate  mother,  who,  with  all 
a  mother's  unwearied  love,  began  with  a  thanks 
giving  at  my  birth,  and  has  followed  me,  in  in 
fancy,  with  Baptismal  privileges,  in  childhood, 
with  the  holy  teachings  of  her  Catechism,  in  youth, 
with  Confirmation  vows,  and  will  follow  me  in 
maturity  with  holy  Sacraments  ;  who  will  go  with 
me  to  the  marriage  altar,  and  will  follow  me, 
with  the  gentlest  and  most  loving  words,  to  the 
chamber  of  sickness  and  suffering ;  who  will  send 
up  to  heaven  the  most  fervent  of  petitions  when 
I  am  breathing  out  my  life,  and  will  then,  with 
sad  and  solemn  words,  reverently  lay  my  body 
in  the  grave  to  await  the  resurrection  morning. 
Oh  Emma !  none  but  a  mother  ever  could  thus 
follow  a  child  through  every  circumstance  and 
condition  of  life,  and  surely  that  Church  deserves 
to  be  so  called,  which  watches  over  us  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave,  on  the  land  and  the  sea,  in 
the  sanctuary  and  in  the  sick  and  dving  chamber, 


80  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

in  the  gorgeous  cathedral  and  the  dark  and  nar 
row  cell  of  the  lonely  prisoner.  Yes,  the  Church 
is  a  precious  mother,  and  I  thank  God,  that  while 
I  am  under  her  maternal  guidance,  I  cannot  be 
altogether  an  orphan. 

Emma  was  amazed.  Bessie  spoke  too  seri 
ously  and  quietly,  and  feelingly,  to  be  uttering 
a  rhapsody;  and  yet  her  friend  was  so  bewil 
dered  that  she  almost  doubted  whether  indeed 
she  heard  aright.  Bessie's  words  had  -  opened 
to  her  an  entirely  new  vein  of  thought.  She 
had  always  been  accustomed  to  regard  Church 
ordinances  as  so  many  disagreeable  restrictions, 
and  looked  upon  the  whole  system  of  Church 
worship  rather  as  a  formal  and  prescribed  meth 
od  of  passing  away  Sunday,  than  as  something 
which  is  to  go  with  us  into  the  week,  and  fol 
low  us  into  all  situations  of  life. 

At  first  she  said  nothing  in  reply,  ahd  seemed 
lost  in  thought";  but  in  a  little  while  she  an 
swered  : — 

"I  wish,  Bessie,  that  I  could  feel  as  you  do, 
with  regard  to  some  church;  but  every  thing 
in  religion  and  in  the  Church  seems  to  me  so 
intangible,  so  abstruse,  so  unreal — deep  meta- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  81 

physical  doctrine  that  I  cannot  understand,  and 
services  which,  in  your  mode  of  worship,  seem 
all  formalism,  and  in  others  all  excitement,  or 
all  cold,  dull  uniformity.  I  wish  I  could  look 
with  your  eyes  upon  the  Episcopal  Service ;  at 
least,"  she  added,  with  an  affected  carelessness, 
"  while  I  stay  here ;  for,  as  I  am  obliged  to  hear 
it,  I  would  of  course  prefer  to  be  interested  in 
it.  But  oh,  that  tedious  routine  of  the  same 
prayers,  the  same  chants,  even  the  same  sub 
jects  to  be  treated  of  in  the  pulpit  at  stated 
times!  ISunv,  Bessie,  speak  the  honest  truth:  do 
you  not  in  your  heart  sometimes  get  tired  of 
it?" 

"Emma,  when  do  you  expect  to  go  home 
again  ?" 

"  Well,"  replied  Emma,  "  that  is  quite  foreign 
to  the  subject;  but  I  will  grant  to  your  ques 
tion  a  more  direct  reply  than  you  have  given 
mine.  I  am  going  to  spend  my  Christmas  holi 
days  at  home ;  and  I  intend,  moreover,  if  you 
will  consent  to  the  arrangement,  to'  carry  my 
new-made  friend  Bessie  Melville  along.  But  why 
do  you  as%?"  • 

"I  want   to   know,  Emma,  which   would    be 


82  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

more  agreeable  to  yon,  when  you  drive  up  to 
your  house,  to  have  your  own  dear  mother  rush 
out  to  welcome  you,  with  the  same  well-known 
loving  face,  the  same  familiar  voice,  the  same 
warm  clasping  embrace,  to  which  you  have 
been  accustomed  from  a  child,  the  same  old  but 
endearing  epithet,  'my  daughter,'  the  same  cor 
dial  old  welcome  to  the  same  old  home ;  or,  to 
have  a  stranger  come  to  meet  you  with  unfa 
miliar  voice,  aspect  and  manner ; — which,  Emma, 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  you?" 

"  Why,  what  a  question,  Bessie !"  replied 
Emma,  laughing.  Who  would  not  rather  see 
her  own  dear  old  mother  than  any  body  else 
in  the  world?" 

"And  do  you  never  grow  tired  of  the  same 
old  home,  Emma?  I  should  think  the  same 
faces,  the  same  house,  the  same  flowers,  the  same 
trees  would  become  very  monotonous  to  you." 

"  Why,  how  silly,  Bessie,  to  talk  so !  Do  you 
not  know  that  all  these  things  acquire  a  sort  of 
sacredness  in  my  estimation  just  because  they 
are  familiar?  I  love  them  all  the  more  because 
their  recollection  goes  with  me  as  Jpr  back  as 
my  earliest  consciousness." 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  83 

"Well,  Emma,  that  is  all  I  wish  to  know. 
Your  own  words  are  the  best  answer  to  the 
question  you  have  just  asked  me.  You  have 
yourself  declared  that  in  the  purest  and  holiest 
affections  of  our  nature  we  do  not  desire  novel 
ties.  The  same  old  home,  the  same  old  friends, 
must  ever  be  the  dearest.  Now,  carry  this  feel 
ing  into  our  religion.  God  has  given  us  but 
one  revelation,  and  we  must  study,  day  by  day 
and  year  by  year,  its  very  same  old  words ;  and 
the  higher  we  advance  in  the  Christian  life,  and 
the  nearer  we  approach  the  atmosphere  of  Hea 
ven,  the  dearer  do  these  words  become,  and  the 
more  wre  should  deprecate  any  change  in  them. 
And  in  that  revelation,  when  our  Saviour  would 
seem  most  attractive  to  us,  when  He  would,  in 
one  single  word,  embody  all  those  characteristics 
which  will  make  us  love  Him  more  and  cling 
more  closely  to  Him,  He  inspires  his  apostle 
to  represent  Him  as  'Jesus  Christ,  the  same 
yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever;'  no  alteration  of 
purpose,  no  change  of  feeling,  but  the  same  ten 
der,  gentle,  loving  Saviour  who,  in  the  days  of 
his  humanity,  wept  over  sinners  and  prayed 
for  his  murderers.  And  the  Saviour's  Church, 


84  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

following  liis  example,  and  manifesting  the  same 
consideration  for  this  longing  of  the  human  heart, 
has  provided  us  with  an  unalterable  Liturgy. ; 
and  this,  like  the  Bible,  can  no  more  weary  or 
satiate  the  true  Christian  than  can  the  atmos 
phere  he  breathes  or  the  friends  he  loves.  I 
go  to  church  always  to  worship  the  same  God. 
The  wants  of  my  soul  and  body  are  generally 
the  same,  the  common  mercies  of  daily  life 
are  the  same ;  therefore,  I  must,  in  substance 
at  least,  if  not  in  words,  ask  for  the  same  things 
and  offer  the  same  thanksgivings ;  and  for  pre 
cisely  the  same  reason  that  you  prefer  your  old 
home,  do  I  prefer  my  old  service ;  because  its 
worjls  are  associated  with  my  earliest  and  most 
sacred  memories ;  because  I  do  not  remember 
the  time  when  they  were  not  familiar  to  my 
ears,  and  reverenced  by  my  heart  before  I  knew 
their  meaning  any  farther  than  this,  that  they 
were  holy  words,  by  which  my  mother  told  me 
1  might  talk  to  my  Father  in  Heaven." 

"There  is  something  in  that,  I  confess,  Bessie," 
replied  Emma,  after  a  few  moments'  thought ; 
"I  never  viewed  it  in  that  light  before.  But, 
Buppose,  as  is  the  case  with  myself,  that  none 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  85 

of  the  recollections  of  childhood  were  interwoven 
with  this  service ;  that  it  had  not  been  familiar 
to  you  from  infancy,  what  then?  Do  you  think 
that  you  would  love  it  so  much?" 

"I  dare  say,  Emma,  that  at  first  I  should 
not;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  more  familiar 
I  became  with  it  the  more  I  should  value  it. 
That  perfect  adaptation  to  every  circumstance 
and  condition  of  our  life,  which  is  so  remark 
able  a  characteristic  of  the  Prayer  Book,  would, 
I  think,  very  soon  be  perceptible  to  me ;  and 
the  fact  that  there  is  no  want  of  our  being 
which  is  not  prayed  for,  and  no  mercy  which 
is  not  gratefully  acknowledged  in  a  thanksgiving, 
would  alone  be  sufficient  to  open  my  eyes  to 
its  priceless  value.  I  think  it  quite  probable 
that  it  would  take  me  some  time  to  find  this 
out,  for  the  Prayer  Book,  like  the  Bible,  re 
quires  to  be  studied.  Like  God's  own  Word, 
to  which  it  so  scrupulously  adheres,  and  from 
which  a  very  large  portion  of  its  contents  is  a 
copy,  it  has  a  depth  of  meaning  which  the 
careless  reader  will  never  fathom,  but  which 
the  true-hearted,  earnest-minded  Christian,  illit 
erate  though  he  may  be,  will  not  fail  to  dis- 


86  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

cover.  Emma,  my  mother  used  to  say  that  her 
Bible  and  Prayer  Book  needed  the  unclouded 
light  of  Heaven,  and  the  undimmed  intellect 
of  the  disembodied  soul  for  all  their  wealth  of 
beauty  to  be  unfolded  and  appropriated." 

Bessie  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added,  rev 
erently,  "And  the  unfolding  of  those  beauties 
she  is  now  enjoying  in  the  Paradise  of  God, 
with  that  Saviour  for  her  teacher,  to  whom,  hav 
ing  not  seen,  she  so  lovingly  clung  even  while 
yet  absent  from  Him." 

Unconsciously  the  girls  had  wandered  on  while 
engaged  in  their  conversation,  and  the  shades  of 
evening  had  gathered  around  them,  and  the  chill 
autumn  air  warned  them  to  return  home.  They 
retraced  their  steps  to  the  school  without  a  word, 
Emma  pondering  the  strange  things  which  she 
had  heard,  and  which  were  but  dimly  compre 
hended  by  her,  and  Bessie  thinking  of  that  pure 
and  sainted  mother  who  was  so  vividly  brought 
before  her  mind  as  she  uttered  these  last  words. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  8" 


CHAPTER    V. 

One  Ark 

Of  old  rescued  the  Patriarch's  house. 
But  now  while  men  are  warned  to  escape 
The  floods  of  wrath,  they  stop  to  ask 
Which  Ark  is  safest  ?    Tell  me  which 
Will  surest  breast  the  waves  ?    Lo !  while  they  wait 
The  deluge  comes  and  overwhelms  them  all. 

EMMA  WALTON,  though  a  gay-hearted,  happy 
girl,  was  not  a  thoughtless  one,  and  yet  it  was 
a  matter  of  wonder  to  herself  that  Bessie's  words 
had  made  such  an  impression  upon  her  mind. 
For  the  next  two  or  three  days  she  found  her 
self  involuntarily  recalling  first  one  thing,  and 
then  another,  that  had  been  said  in  their  Sun 
day-evening  conversation,  and  she  was  surprised 
to  find  how  vividly  it  was  all  impressed  upon 
her  memory.  Her  acquaintance  with  the  Prayer 
Book  did  not  extend  beyond  the  ability  to  fol 
low  through  the  prescribed  morning  and  evening 
service,  and  even  in  these  she  frequently  found 
herself  at  a  loss  where  to  find  the  Collect,  Epis- 


8?  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

tie  and  Gospel  for  the  day.  She  had  only  been 
a  few  months  at  the  school,  so  that  usage  had  as 
yet  scarcely  familiarized  her  with  the  service, 
and  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  it  was  at 
all  worth  while  to  look  into  the  contents  of  the 
Prayer  Book,  out  of  church.  She  regarded  it 
merely  as  a  volume  containing  the  formal  mode 
of  public  worship,  and  thought  that,  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  sanctuary,  it  was  useless. 

But  she  had  found  that  thus  it  did  not  seem 
to  every  one.  A  young  girl  not  older  than 
herself  had  learned  somewhere,  and  by  some 
means,  to  place  a  very  different  estimate  upon 
it,  and  spoke  of  it,  too,  as  if  she  were  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  its  teachings. 

Two  or  three  days  had  passed  away.  With, 
that  strange  dislike  which  all  persons,  especial 
ly  the  young,  seem  to  feel  to  its  being  suspectec 
that  they  are  interested  in  religious  truths  : 
services,  Emma  would  not  go  again  to  Bessie 
to  learn  any  thing  or  ask  any  guidance,  but, 
alone  and  unassisted,  she  determined  to  look 
into  the  Prayer  Book  for  herself,  and  see  if  she, 
too,  could  not  learn  some  of  its  wonders,  and 
see  some  of  its  beauties. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  89 

She  was  sitting  on  the  grass  in  the  grove, 
turning  over  the  leaves.  Too  curious  to  see 
all,  she  could  not  take  time  to  do  more  than 
glance  at  a  few  lines  of  each  of  its  offices;  and 
yet  even  such  a  hasty  survey  as  -this,  seemed 
to  give  her  a  glimmering  idea  of  what  Bessie 
meant,  when  she  called  the  Church  a  mother, 
who  watched  over  her  children  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  The  very  headings  of  the  offices 
told  her  this ;  and  as  she  read :  "  Baptism  of 
Infants,"  "  Catechism,"  "  Confirmation,"  "  Solem 
nization  of  Matrimony,"  "  Visitation  of  the  Sick," 
"  Communion  of  the  Sick,"  "  Burial  of  the  Dead," 
"Forms  of  Prayer  to  be  used  at  Sea,"  "Visita 
tion  of  Prisoners,"  she  thought — 

"This,  then,  is  wkat  Bessie  meant  by  saying 
%that  the  Church  follows  us  with  her  teachings 
and  privileges,  in  infancy,  childhood,  youth, 
and  maturity,  on  the  land  and  the  sea,  in  sick 
ness  and  in  health,  in  the  sanctuary  and  in  the 
prisoner's  cell.  Really  there  is  truth  in  what 
she  said ;  it  does  seem  something  like  a  mother 
following  her  child  all  through  life,  and  never 
leaving  it  under  any  circumstances,  until  .she 

has  seen  the  grave  close  over  it." 
8* 


90  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  by  yourself,  Em 
ma?"  said  Bessie's*  voice,  as  she  approached 
from  behind. 

A  slight  blush  mantled  on  Emma's  cheek,  as 
she  felt  almost  sorry  that  Bessie  had  come  upon 
her  while  in  the  act  of  studying  the  Prayer 
Book;  for  such  is  the  contrariety  of  our  nature, 
that,  even  while  she  had  actually  longed-  for 
days  for  some  accident  to  cause  Bessie  to  re 
new  the  theme  of  the  preceding  Sunday,  yet, 
now  that  the  opportunity  had  offered,  she  felt 
ashamed  that  Bessie  should  discover  that  she 
had  ever  bestowed  a  moment's  thought  upon 
that  conversation. 

Bessie's  face  glowed  with  pleasure  as  she  rec 
ognized  in  her  friend's  hand1,  not  the  new,  hand 
some  Prayer  Book  with  which  Emma  had  pro 
vided  herself  as  part  of  her  equipment  for  the 
Episcopal  school,  but  the  little  old,  well-worn, 
but  sacred  book,  which,  in  by-gone  years,  had 
always  found  a  place  in  her  mother's  work-bas 
ket;  and  from  whose  well-studied  pages  that 
mother  had  expounded  its  teachings  to  herself 
and  her  child-sister. 

She  walked  up  close   to  Emma,  and  passing 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  91 

her  arm  around  her  waist,  her  eyes  filled,  as  she 
took  the  book  from  Emma's  hand,  and  opened 
where  it  was  written  : — 


"MARY  HERBERT. 

FROM 
HER  OLD  FATHER. 


5) 


"I  love  you  very  dearly,  Emma,"  she  said. 
"If  I  did  not,  I  could  not  without  pain  see 
you  use  that  precious  little  book.  I  have  in  my 
trunk  a  Bible  bound  like  it,  which  was  given 
to  my  mother  by  her  father  at  the  same  time 
with  this.  I  believe,  Emma,  that  one  of  the 
first  things  I  remember  is,  of  being  a  very  little 
child  when  my  mother  one  day  took  me  in  her 
lap,  and,  holding  this  book  in  one  hand,  she 
laid  the  other  upon  my  head,  and  repeated  some 
words  over  me,  which  I  of  course  did  not  un 
derstand;  but  the  earnestness  and  solemnity  of 
her  manner  made  such  a  deep  impression,  that 
I  never  forgot  it.  Years  afterward  I  reminded 
her  of  the  incident,  and  she  showed  me,  in  this 
book,  the  blessing  which  she  then  implored 
upon  my  infant  head.  Here  it  is." 


92  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Emma  read : — 

"The  Lord  bless  tliee  and  keep  tliec.  The 
Lord  make  his  face  to  shine  upon  thee,  and  be 
gracious  unto  thee.  The  Lord  lift  up  his  coun 
tenance  upon  thee  and  give  thee  peace,  both 
now  and  evermore.  Amen." 

"It  is  indeed  a  most  beautiful  and  compre 
hensive  blessing,"  said  Emma,  "and  interwoven, 
too,  into  the  office  for  the  visitation  of  the  sick.'' 

"  Yes,  Emma,  the  Church,  like  a  tender  moth 
er,  ever  reserves  her  most  loving  words,  and  full 
est  blessings,  and  gentlest  offices,  for  her  sick 
child.  There  is  nothing  in  that  Prayer  Book 
more  beautiful  than  this  same  Visitation  Office." 

"I  see,  Bessie,  that  you  still  cling  to  what 
seemed  to  me,  at  first,  the  strange  notion  of  call 
ing  your  Church  a  mother.  I  believe  I  begin 
rather  to  like  it;  but  I  should  have  to  be  very 
well  assured  that  a  Church  is  right  in  doctrine, 
discipline,  and  mode  of  worship,  before  I  could 
ever  feel  for  it  that  affection,  and  submission, 
and  trust,  which  are  all  implied  in  the  word 
mother.  And  this  has  always  been  a  stumbling- 
block  in  the  way  of  my  going  into  any  Church. 
I  may  seem  to  you,  Bessie,  thoughtless  and  friv- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  93 

olous,  but  I  have  had,  and  still  have,  at  times, 
a  sincere  desire  to  be  a  Christian ;  and  in  read 
ing  of  our  Saviour's  pure  and  sinless  life,  even 
if  there  were  no  heaven  to  reach,  and  no  hell  to 
shun,  I  think  I  would,  of  all  things  in  the  world, 
desire  to  be  like  Him  in  gentleness  and  holiness. 
Sometimes  my  heart  is  completely  melted  and 
subdued  at  the  thought  of  all  He  has  done  for 
me,  and  I  long  to  do  something  to  show  that  I 
am  neither  unmindful  of,  nor  ungrateful  for,  the 
salvation  He  has  purchased  for  me ;  and  when 
I  express  this  desire  I  am  told  that  the  only 
w§y  to  confess  Christ  before  men  is  to  join 
some  church.  I  ask  'what  church?'  for  I  find 
them  all  around  me,  of  every  form  of  doctrine 
and  mode  of  worship.  Some  tell  me,  '  Of  course 
I  must  join  the  church  in  which  I  have  been 
reared ;'  others  point  to  another  and  sa}^  '  This 
is  the  way,  walk  thou  in  it;'  and  others,  yet 
again,  tell  me  that  '  One  is  as  good  as  another, 
for  they  all  lead  to  Heaven,  and  after  you  reach 
there,  it  will  make  but  little  difference  by  what 
road  you  came.'  Now,  Bessie,  this  has  been  a 
difficulty  in  my  way  more  than  once.  I  am 
yet  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  and  know  noth- 


94  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

ing  of  doctrines  and  theories.  I  am  not  wise 
enough  to  decide  between  all  these  conflicting 
opinions;  and,  bewildered  by  them,  and  afraid 
of  doing  wrong,  I  have  concluded  to  do  noth 
ing  in  the  way  of  public  profession,  but  quietly 
to  read  my  Bible,  and  love  my  Saviour,  and 
strive  to  be  like  Him.  But  after  a  while  these 
impressions  wear  off,  and  I  begin  to  be  care 
less  again,  and  then  I  feel  thankful  that  I  did 
not  join  any  church,  because  I  find  out  that  1 
have  never  been  a  real  Christian.  Your  words 
the  other  day  about  regarding  the  Church  as 
a  mother,  at  first  amazed  me,  and  then,  I  ^11 
acknowledge  it,  amused  me;  and,  lastly,  excited 
in  me  a  desire  to  have  the  same  feelings  to 
wards  some  church,  though,  to  speak  candidly, 
I  do  not  now  think  it  would  be  the  Episcopal. 
I  need  some  guide,  for,  beyond  a  love  for  the 
Saviour  and  a  desire  to  be  like  Him,  all  seems 
abstruse  and  dark,  and,  as  I  told  you  the. other 
day,  intangible.  I  want  something  that  I  can 
take  hold  of,  something  real,  which  I  can  love 
and  reverence ;  and  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the 
more  I  feel  that  it  is  precisely  a  mother  tha^l 
want — a  Church  whose  authority  to  teach  I  can- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  95 

not  question,  one  in  which  I  can  trust  implic 
itly,  and  to  whose  teachings  I  can  render  un 
questioning  obedience.  But  how  to  begin  the 
search,  among  all  these  divisions  and  dissensions, 
I  do  not  know.  Even  if  I  live  to  old  age,  and 
am  learned  enough,  and  have  time  enough  to 
devote  to  the  investigation,  it  will  be  a  life-long 
work  to  discover  which  is  the  right  one,  or 
which  nearest  right;  and  I  am  afraid  that  all 
these  feelings  which  you  have  been  the  means 
of  again  awakening  in  my  heart,  will  die  away, 
as  the  others  have  done  before,  without  pro 
ducing  any  results." 

"I  sincerely  trust  not,  Emma,"  replied  Bessie; 
"but  how  to  counsel  you  in  your  difficulty,  I 
have  no  idea,  for  with  all  such  doubts  and 
fears  I  am  totally  unacquainted.  I  have  never 
known  but  one  way.  The  very  first  act  of  my 
mother  after  my  birth,  was  to  make  me,  by  holy 
baptism,  a  member  of  the  Church  of  Christ ; 
and  from  the  earliest  dawn  of  my  intellect,  she 
btrove  to  impress  me  with  the  belief,  not  that. 
I  was  to  be  at  some  indefinite  future  period  a 
member  of  the  Church,  but  that  I  was  then, 
and  never  could  be  any  thing  else,  and  that  I 


96  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

was  bound  by  solemn  vows  to  be  first  a  Cliris- 
tian  child,  and  then  a  Christian  woman.  And 
most  faithfully,  Emma,  did  my  mother  fulfil  the 
promises  which  she  made  at  my  baptism,  and 
earnestly  did  she,  as  she  promised  then  to  do, 
'instruct  me  in  all  things  which  a  Christian 
ought  to  know  and  believe.'  With  my  gradually 
expanding  intellect  she  explained  to  me  as  1 
was  able  to  understand  them,  the  standards  of 
that  Church  to  which  she  was  so  ardently  at 
tached.  She  did  not  wait  till  I  was  old  enough 
to  choose  a  church  for  myself,  any  more  than 
she  waited  until  I  was  grown  so  as  to  let  me 
decide  whether  or  not  I  would  choose  to  be 
educated  ;  but  patiently  and  untiringly  did  she 
study  with  me  that  Prayer  Book  which  she  so 
much  valued ;  and  showed  me,  step  by  step,  how 
in  its  minutest  teachings  and  details,  it  had  fol 
lowed  with  such  wonderful  particularity  the  holy 
Word  of  God.  And  you  can  form  no  idea  how 
it  enhances  to  me  the  pleasure  of  reading  both 
Bible  and  Prayer  Book,  to  note  the  correspond 
encies  which  she  has  pointed  out  to  me  when 
a  child,  and  which  seem  daily  more  remark 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  97 

able,    just    in    proportion    to    the    strengthening 
and  expanding  of  my  mind. 

"The  holy  little  sister  that  I  have  told  you 
of,  never  wearied  of  these  instructions;  and  my 
mother  accounted  it  one  of  the  greatest  privi 
leges  of  her  life,  that  she  had  been  permitted 
to  unfold  the  beauties  of  the  Prayer  Book  to 
a  childish  mind  which  so  eagerly  enjoyed  them ; 
but  I  was  not  so  docile,  not  so  in  love  with 
holy  things,  and  when  I  sometimes  grew  restive 
under  the  restraint,  she  would  gently  say :  '  You 
will  live  to  see  the  day,  my  daughter,  when 
you  will  gratefully  remember  your  mother  for 
all  these  instructions,  and  when  it  will  be  to 
you  an  unspeakable  pleasure,  to  trace  the  won 
derful  agreement  of  the  Prayer  Book  with  the 
Bible.'  I  used  then  to  think  that  she  might  be 
mistaken,  but  I  have  since  learned  that  she  was 
right,  although  never,  until  I  was  left  as  it  were 
to  my  own  guidance,  could  I  fully  realize  the 
value  of  the  precious  legacy  which  she  has  lefl 
me  in  the  absolute  conviction,  founded  not  upop 
the  hearsay  of  others,  but  upon  my  own  knowl 
edge,  that  the  Church  in  whose  fold  my  mo 
ther  placed  me  in  my  infancy,  is  the  Church  ot 


98  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Christ,  founded  literally  'upon  the  apostles  and 
prophets,  Jesus  Christ  Himself  being  the  chief 
corner-stone,'  following  the  Bible  in  teachings, 
sacraments,  and  worship,  and,  withal,  so  inter 
weaving  the  truths,  and  precepts,  and  consola 
tions  of  our  holy  religion  into  our  e very-day 
life,  that,  as  I  have  shown  you  before,  they  go 
with  us  into  every  circumstance  and  condition." 

"But,  Bessie,  may  not  these  other  churches 
be  equally  right,  equally  in  accordance  with 
the  Word  of  God?" 

"With  that,  Emma,  I  have  nothing  to  do. 
I  know  that  .ours  is  the  good  old  Church  which 
our  Anglo-Saxon  fathers  brought  with  them  to 
this  new  world ;  a  holy  Church  in  all  her  words 
and  ways,  and  the  mother  of  many  holy  chil 
dren.  She  is  always  reading  the  Bible  to  us, 
and  professes  to  teach  the  same  doctrines  and 
in  the  same  words  which  the  early  Cliristians 
believed."  And  Bessie  went  on  to  explain  to 
Emma  that  veiy  little  of  the  Prayer  Book  is 
new;  that  it  was  made  up  of  the  old  liturgies 
which  were  in  use  many  centuries  ago,  and  that, 
while  the  Church  teaches  many  things,  she  re 
quires  us,  in  order  to  become  members,  to  be- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  99 

lieve  the  plain,  simple  things  which  stand  out 
upon  the  face  of  Scripture." 

"  But,  suppose  you  were  to  find  out  the 
Church  is  wrong,  what  would  you  do  then  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed  I  don't  know.  Have  you 
ever  settled,  Emma,  what  you  intend  to  do 
when  your  father  and  mother  are  sent  to  the 
penitentiary  ?" 

Emma's  face  flushed  for  a  moment ;  but  the 
absurdity  of  the  suggestion  overcame  her,  and 
she  laughed  heartily  at  the  imagined  parental 
downfall. 

"Do  not  think,"  continued  Bessie,  "that  I 
look  down  upon  other  people.  My  mother  used 
to  tell  me  that  there  were  many  people  better 
than  she  was,  who  belonged  to  various  denomi 
nations.  She  said  we  ought  to  love  goodness 
wherever  we  found  it,  and  treat  every  body's 
religion  with  respect. 

"But  then  she  said,  that  we  ought  to  be 
afraid  of  experiments  in  religion,  even  when 
they  were  made  with  a  good  design ;  that  if 
there  was  an  old,  well-trodden  way,  we  had 
better  keep  to  it,  although  wise  men  might  say 
they  had  found  a  nearer  road;  and,  Emma, 


100  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

from  what  little  I  know,  it  docs  seem  as  if  there 
was  nothing  settled  and  quiet,  except  in  the 
Church ;  outside  of  it  they  are  always  chang 
ing  and  dividing.  But  I  know  too  little  about 
these  things  to  discuss  them." 

"  "Well,  Bessie,  I  would  give  all  the  world 
for  just  such  an  assurance  as  this.  All  agree 
in  telling  me,  that  'I  ought  to  join  some  church 
— I  cannot  be  a  Christian  without  it;'  but  when 
I  ask,  in  dismay:  'Which?'  then  each  one 
points  me  to  a  different  one.  Now,  if  I  could 
only  be  satisfied  for  myself,  I  would  so  gladly 
seek  shelter,  under  a  mother's  protecting  care 
and  guidance ;  for  my  own  experience  tells  me, 
that  in  this  they  all  speak  the  truth ;  it  is  ne 
cessary  to  join  some  one.  Will  you  not  help 
me,  Bessie,  to  decide,  if  I  set  about  the  work 
in  good  earnest?  If  I  know  my  own  heart,  I 
do  desire  to  be  a  Christian.  I  know  that  I  love 
and  reverence  the  Saviour ;  and  I  do  intend 
to  try  and  do  his  will,  and  to  be  like  Him. 
Must  I  wait  for  any  thing  else  before  I  join 
the  Church?" 

"  You  will  not  feel  hurt,  Emma,  if  I  ask  you 
please  not  to  say,  'join  the  Church.'  Every- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  101 

body,  I  know,  uses  the  phrase ;  but  you  will 
not  find  it  in  the  Prayer  Book;  and  in  the 
Bible  it  is  said,  '  The  Lord  added  to  the  Church.' 
We  speak  of  'joining'  human  societies ;  and  the 
word  seems  to  imply,  that  we  expect  to  help 
them  on  by  giving  them  the  weight  of  our  in 
fluence  and  example.  I  would  prefer  to  say, 
'  go  into  the  Church,'  as  this  phrase  seems  rather 
to  express  a  sense  of  need  and  a  desire  for 
shelter. 

"  As  to  waiting  for  any  other  feelings  before 
going  into  the  Church,  the  Saviour  has  recog 
nized  no  other  as  necessary,  except  sorrow  for 
sin,  and,  by  his  help,  a  full  purpose  of  amend 
ment;  and  the  Church,  following  closely  in  his 
footsteps,  receives  to  the  Holy  Communion,  which 
is  her  mode  of  admission  into  full  and  complete 
membership,  all  those  'who  truly  and  earnestly 
repent  of  their  sins,  are  in  love  and  charity  with 
their  neighbors,  and  intend  to  lead  a  new  life.' 
It  must  be  necessary  to  be  in  the  Church,  in 
order  to  be  a  Christian,  because  it  is  there 
alone  that  the  Holy  Communion  is  adminis 
tered;  and  it  is  our  Saviour's  dying  command, 
'  to  do  this  in  remembrance  of  Him ;'  and  the 


102  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Church  re-echoes  his  words:  'As  the  Son  of 
God  did  vouchsafe  to  yield  up  his  soul,  by 
death  upon  the  cross  for*  your  salvation,  so  it 
is  your  duty  to  receive  the  Communion  in  re 
membrance  of  the  sacrifice  of  his  death,  as  He 
himself  hath  commanded:  which  if  ye  shall 
neglect  to  do,  consider  with  yourselves  how 
great  is  your  ingratitude  to  God,  and  how  sore 
punishment  hangeth  over  your  heads  for  the 
same;  when  ye  wilfully  abstain  from  the  Lord's 
table,  and  separate  from  your  brethren,  who 
come  to  feed  on  the  banquet  of  that  most  heav 
enly  food.' 

"  With  regard  to  helping  you,  Emma,  I  would 
be  very  glad  to  do  any  thing  by  way  of  as 
sisting  and  encouraging  you  to  be  a  Christian ; 
but  as  to  choosing  a  church  for  you,  that  is  a 
responsibility  which  I  dare  not  assume.  As  I 
told  you  before,  I  know  no  church  but  my 
own ;  to  attempt  to  lead  you  by  any  other  road, 
would  emphatically  be  'the  blind  leading  the 
blind;'  and  you  do  not  seem  to  think  that  you 
could  ever  learn  to  love  the  church  of  my  af 
fections  and  confidence.  But  wre  can,  at^  least, 
study  the  Bible  together.  We  both  acknowl- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  103 

edge  that  to  be  our  standard  of  action,  and  the 
Saviour  whom  it  reveals  to  be  our  Lord  and 
God.  Here  there  can  be  no  diversity  of  opin 
ion,  and  for  the  present  we  can  leave  all  other 
points  alone,  and  only  try  to  'learn  of  Him  to 
be  meek  and  lowly  in  heart.'" 

Emma's  countenance  wore  a  shade  of  disap 
pointment.  She  was  silent  an  instant,  and  then 
replied : 

"I  thought,  Bessie,  that  from  the  enthusiastic 
love  you  seemed  to  bear  that  mother  Church, 
nothing  would  delight  you  half  so  much  as  to 
win  for  her  the  affections  and  confidence  of  an 
other  daughter;  but  yet,  when  I  ask  you  to  do 
this,  you  rather  refuse  my  request." 

"Not  at  all,  my  dearest  Emma,"  said  Bessie. 
"I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  it  would  delight 
me  to  see  you  a  devoted  Church-woman,  and 
to  be  instrumental-  in  leading  you  into  those 
green  pastures,  I  should  regard  as  one  of  the 
greatest  privileges  of  my  whole  life.  But,  after 
all,  Emma,  I  am,  as  you  say  of  yourself,  scarcely 
more  than  a  child.  I  know  nothing  except  what 
my  mother  taught  me  ;  and  it  may  be  that  even 
her  teachings,  though  right  in  themselves,  were 


BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

imperfectly  comprehended  or  misconstrued  by 
my  yoiiDg  mind.  It  would  be  so  much  safer 
for  you  to  seek  a  more  competent  guide.  Why 
not  go  to  Mr.  Lester?  He  is  a  minister,  .and 
it  is  his  business  and  pleasure  to  enlighten  the 
ignorant  and  guide  the  wandering." 

"No,  Bessie,  not  yet.  My  purposes  are  so 
unformed  that  I  could  not  explain  to  him  all 
I  want.  I  have  known  him  longer,  it  is  true ; 
but  he  is,  after  all,  more  of  a  stranger  to  me 
than  you  are.  I  can  pour  out  my  feelings  to 
you,  and  expose  my  ignorance  to  you  with  less 
restraint  than  to  any  body  else,  and  if  you  will 
not  teach  me,  I  shall  not  go  to  any  one  to 
help  me." 

""Well,  my  dear  Emma,  it  will  give  me  very 
great  pleasure  to  go  over  with  you  all  the 
teachings  of  my  childhood.  I  had  line  upon 
line,  and  precept  upon  precept,  and  do  not 
think  that  I  have  forgotten  any  thing;  at  least, 
the  different  offices  of  the  Prayer  Book  will  at 
once  recall  my  mother's  explanations,  as  I  un 
derstood  them. 

"We  will  begin  and  go  regularly  through  the 
Prayer  Book,  and  try  and  note,  as  my  mother 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  105 

pointed  out  to  me,  its  beautiful  correspondence 
with  the  Bible." 

"I  think,  Bessie,  that  I  shall  like  it  very 
much.  The  headings  of  all  these — 'offices'  I 
believe  you  called  them — attracted  my  atten 
tion,  especially  those  for  the  sick  and  for  pris 
oners.  It  seems  so  careful  and  considerate  to 
provide  services  for  the  lonely  and  the  suffer 
ing." 

"I  think,  Emma,"  said  Bessief  smiling,  "that 
you  already  begin  to  appreciate  the  propriety  of 
the  name — '  mother.'  You  have  used  the  proper 
term.  The  Church,  like  her  blessed  Lord,  is  al 
ways  '  careful  and  considerate'  towards  our  neces 
sities  and  infirmities,  and  in  this  respect  resembles 
nothing  earthly  so  much  as  a  patient,  gentle,  lov 
ing  mother." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
Bessie  spoke. 

"But  tell  me,  Emma,  how  you  came  by  my 
little  Prayer  Book,  and  what  was  your  fancy 
for  taking  that  instead  of  your  own  handsome 
one?  I  feel  that  its  shabby  and  unsightly  ap 
pearance  throws  a  safe-guard  around  it,  and 
hence  I  always  keep  it  lying  on  my  table 


106  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

among  my  other  books,  with  an  apparent  in 
difference  to  it  which  is  very  far  from  real,  for 
I  assure  you,  that  there  are  few  things  in  the 
Arorld  that  I  value  so  much." 

"I  went  into  your  room,  Bessie,  to  see  you, 
and  I  saw  lying  on  the  table  this  same  old 
book,  which  I  have  noticed  with  surprise  you 
always  carry  to  church.  I  concluded  that  there 
must  be  some  reason  why  you  thus  valued  it, 
and  you  may  think  it  was  an  impertinent  cu 
riosity  which  tempted  me  to  look  into  it;  and 
I  read  what  I  immediately  conjectured  was  your 
mother's  maiden  name.  I  had  just  taken  up 
my  own  Prayer  Book  to  look  into  its  contents, 
for  what  you  had  said  about  it  the  other  day 
interested  me,  and  I  determined  to  see  for  my 
self  what  it  was  that  had  awakened  in  your 
heart  such  enthusiastic  attachment.  I  exchanged 
my  new  book  for  your  well-worn  and  well-used 
one,  why,  I  can  scarcely  tell,  except  that  it 
looked  like  an  old  friend,  and  in  reading  it,  I 
would  not  feel  so  much  like  a  stranger  explor 
ing  an  unknown  region,  but  would  see  along 
every  step  of  the  way  the  foot-prints  of  some 
one  who  had  trodden  that  path  before.  I  hope, 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  107 

Bessie,  that  you  will  excuse  the  liberty  I  have 
taken.  I  supposed  that  your  little  book  was 
valuable,  but  I  did  not  realize  that  it  was  so 
great  a  treasure,  or  I  would  have  left  it  undis 
turbed." 

"Make  no  apologies,  Emma.  It  gives  me 
the  sincerest  pleasure  to  see  it  in  your  hands, 
and  if  any  thing  could  enhance  its  value,  it 
would  be  to  see  it  the  means  of  teaching  and 
guiding,  besides  my  mother,  my  sister  and  my 
self,  the  friend  whom  I  have  learned  in  so  short 
n  time  to  love  so  well." 


108  BESSIE    MELVILLK. 


CHAPTER    VL 

"This  is  my  own  adopted  child, 

Nurse  thou  him  well  for  me;. 
Restore  him  harmless,  undefiled, 

Vast  thy  reward  shall  be. 
That  he  may  worthy  prove  to  be  mine  heir 
Thou  must  take  care!  TAKE  CARE!" 

AUTUMN  gradually  merged  into  winter,  and 
the  first  week  in  December  had  not  passed 
away  before  happy  young  hearts  began  to  throb 
with  pleasure,  and  cheerful  young  voices  to  dis 
cuss  with  eagerness,  the  expected  return  to  their 
homes  at  Christmas.  To  her  visit  to  Emma's 
home,  Bessie  looked  forward  with  anticipations 
of  pleasure  which  were  unaccountable  to  her 
self.  Since  her  mother's  death  strange  faces  had 
been  peculiarly  painful  to  her,  and  she  shrank 
from  all  intercourse,  except  with  a  few  of  her 
most  familiar  friends ;  but  now  she  found  her 
self,  almost  without  any  volition  of  her  own,  not 
only  pledged  to  go  into  the  midst  of  strangers, 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  109 

but  even  expecting  to  enjoy  their  society.  The 
truth  was,  that  Bessie  had  become  exceedingly 
interested  in  Emma  "Walton,  and  longed  to  know, 
not  only  more  of  herself,  but  something  also  of 
her  home.  There  was  in  the  young  girl's  char 
acter  so  much  truthfulness,  so  much  earnestness 
of  purpose  in  her  new  employment  of  studying 
together  the  -  Scriptures  and  the  Prayer  Book, 
such  a  confiding  willingness  to  tell  Bessie  all 
her  difficulties  and  expose  to  her  all  her  ignor 
ance,  that  Bessie  could  not  but  love  and  admire 
her;  and  then  there. was  such  a  bright  sun-light 
of  happiness  ever  emanating  from  her  unclouded 
heart,  that  Bessie's  saddened  spirit  was,  uncon 
sciously  to  herself,  warmed  and  lighted  by  the 
genial  glow.  The  intercourse  of  these  two  new 
friends,  like  the  light  and  shadow  of  a  picture, 
enhanced  the  beauty  of  the  character  of  each ; 
the  buoyancy  of  the  one  was  restrained  from 
becoming  levity,  and  the  sadness  of  the  other 
from  degenerating  into  despondency. 

Never  had  Bessie  so  fully  realized  the  value 
of  her  mother's  patient  and  oft-repeated  instruc 
tions,  as  since  she  had  herself  become  a  teacher. 

Nor  was  it  the  least  pleasant  part  of   her  en> 
10 


110  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

ployment,  that,  day  after  day,  she  saw  new  rea 
son  to  thank  her  God,  that  He  had  granted  to 
her  ignorant  childhood  such  a  mother.  It  had 
only  required  a  very  few  days  thoroughly  to 
arouse  Emma's  interest  in  her  new  pursuit,  and 
Bessie  watched  with  delight  the  effect  produced 
upon  her  mind  by  the  unfolding  of  the  teach 
ings  of  the  Prayer  Book.  And  yet  while  she 
enjoyed  it,  she  could  not  altogether  comprehend 
it.  Herself  instructed  from  early  infancy  in 
Church  teachings,  she  could  not  enter  into  the 
feelings  or  appreciate  the  surprise  of  one  who 
had  grown  up  without  them,  and  when  she 
would  point  out  in  each  and  all  the  offices  of 
the  Prayer  Book  that  careful  following  of  the 
letter  and  spirit  of  the  Scriptures  which  every 
where  abounds,  and  which  she  looked  upon  as 
a  matter  of  course,  she  could  not  understand 
the  delighted  astonishment  of  her  friend. 

It  had  now  grown  too  cold  for  them  to  pur 
sue  their  study  in  the  grove,  and  so  every  after 
noon,  as  soon  as  school  was  dismissed,  they  went 
I  in  mediately  into  Bessie's  room,  and  with  Bible 
in  one  hand,  and  Prayer  Book  in  the  other, 
would  compare  the  two.  Bessie  had  passed 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  Ill 

over  the  same  ground  so  often  before,  that  she 
could,  without  hesitation,  turn  to  almost  all  the 
references  upon  which  any  doctrine  or  custom 
of  the  Church  was  founded ;  but  whenever  she 
was  at  fault,  a  little  marginal  note  upon  the 
page,  in  her  mother's  hand-writing  would  at 
once  direct  her.  Sometimes  they  became  so 
much  interested,  that  they  forgot  the  walk, 
which  was  one  of  their  school  duties,  and  the 
church-bell  calling  them  to  sunset  prayers,  first 
recalled  them  to  a  sense  of  how  much  time 
they  had  consumed. 

They  spent  one  afternoon  studying  the  Bap 
tismal  Office,  but  were  summoned  to  church  be 
fore  they  had  finished  it,  and  that  night,  just 
before  going  to  bed,  while  Bessie  was  indulging 
in  a  little  reverie  as  she  gazed  upon  the  glow 
ing  embers,  a  hurried  tap  at  her  door  was  fol 
lowed  instantly  by  the  entrance  of  Emma,  witb 
a  candle  in  one  hand  and  her  Prayer  Book  in 
the  othei 

"  O,  Bessie !"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  have  found 
something  in  the  Prayer  Book  which  I  do  not 
like,  and  1  am  so  sorry.  Every  thing  else  has 
seemed  not  only  in  accordance  with  the  Bible, 


112  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

bat  even  I  myself,  young  and  ignorant  as  I  am, 
could  see  the  fitness  and  propriety  of  every 
thing  as  far  as  I  have  gone,  and  I  began  t( 
love  the  book  so  much,  that  it  really  distresset 
me  to  see  this.  Surely,  Bessie,  you  never  could 
have  noticed  this  injunction." 

Bessie  smiled  as  she  replied: — 

"Yes,  Emma,  if  it  is  there,  I  am  sure  that  I 
have  setn  it.  But  do  not  be  alarmed.  I  am 
glad  to  B.^e  that  thus  far  the  Prayer  Book  has 
so  commended  itself  to  your  judgment  and  af 
fections,  that  the  idea  of  being  obliged  to  aban 
don  it  pains  and  distresses  you.  What  is  the 
difficulty  ?" 

"This  is  it,"  replied  Emma,  as  she  handed 
Bessie  the  book,  while  on  her  countenance  there 
was  a  mingled  expression  of  consternation  and 
sorrow. 

Bessie  read: — 

"Ye  are  to  take  care  that  this  child  be 
brought  to  the  bishop  to  be  confirmed  by  him 
so  soon  as  he  can  say  the  Creed,  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  and  the  Ten  Commandments,  and  is 
sufficiently  instructed  in  the  other  parts  of  the 
Church  Catechism  set  forth  for  that  purpose." 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  113 

"  O,  Bessie !  you  never  saw  this  before,  did 
you?" 

"  Yes,  Emma ;  very,  very  often." 

"Well,  Bessie,  what  does  it  mean?  Did  you 
not  tell  me  that  Confirmation  admits  a  person 
to  all  the  privileges  of  the  Church,  Holy  Com 
munion  and  all  ?" 

"Yes,  Emma,  I  told  you  so." 

"And  yet,  Bessie,  do  you,  can  you  believe 
that  every  body  who  can  say  the  Creed,  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Ten  Commandments,  is 
ready  for  Confirmation,  and  therefore  for  Com 
munion  ?" 

"No,  Emma;   not  by  any  means." 

"  Why,  Bessie,  it  says  so  here :  read  it  for 
yourself." 

"No,  Emma,  I  need  not  read  it,  for  I  have 
known  it  by  heart  these  many  years.  Do  you 
read  it  again  ;  it  may  be  that  you  have  not 
read  it  aright." 

Emma    looked    at    the    formidable    sentence 

with     earnest    attention,    and     then    mournfully 

shook  her  head  as  if  her  last  hope  was  gone, 

and  she    would    be    compelled   to    surrender    a 

10* 


114  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

book    which    contained    such    monstrous    teach 
ings. 

"Head  it  aloud,  Emma;  let  me  hear  what  it 
says." 

Emma  read: — 

"Ye  are  to  take  care — " 

"That  will  do  for  the  present,"  said  Bessie, 
interrupting  her;  "let  us  talk  about  that  direc 
tion  first.  'Ye  are  to  take  care.'  This,  Emma, 
is  the  last  instruction,  which  lingers  like  a  note 
of  warning  in  the  ears  of  those  who  have  made 
such  solemn  vows  in  the  name  of  the  child. 
The  Church  dismisses  them  with  a  voice  of  ad 
monition,  'Ye  are  to  take  care:'  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  if  ye  do  take  care,  and  faithfully  fulfil 
the  promises  you  have  now  made,  this  child 
will,  most  probably,  be  ready  for  Confirmation 
so  soon  as  he  is  old  enough  to  say  understand- 
ingly  the  Creed,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Ten 
Commandments,  and  is  sufficiently  instructed  in 
the  other  parts  of  the  Church  Catechism  set 
forth  for  that  purpose.'  Do  not  forget  that  last 
clause,  Emma;  it  means  a  great  deal.  'Is  suf 
ficiently  instructed  in  the  other  parts  of  the 
Church  Catechism.'  The  next  thing  we  skill 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  115 

study  will  be  this  very  Church.  Catechism,  and 
I  think  you  will  agree  with  me  in  believing 
that,  whenever  a  child  or  a  grown  person  'is 
sufficiently  instructed  in  that,'  to  believe  and  to 
do  all  that  it  requires,  he  will  be  a  Christian 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  and  entitled  to 
all  the  privileges  of  Church  membership." 

"  Yes,  Bessie,  I  believe  this ;  but  how  can 
any  one  dare  to  promise  for  another  that  he 
will  be  all  that  the  Catechism  requires,  so  soon 
as  he  can  say  understandingly  the  Creed,  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Ten  Commandments?" 

"  They  can  dare  to  promise  this,  Emma,  quite 
as  well  as  they  can  dare  to  promise  that  the 
unconscious  infant  shall  'renounce  the  devil 
and  all  his  works,  the  pomps  -and  vanity*  of  the 
world,  and  all  the.  sinful  lusts  of  the  flesh,  and 
that  he  shall  continue  Christ's  faithful  soldier 
and  servant  unto  his  life's  end.'  They  cannot 
and  dare  not  promise  either  without  God's  help ; 
and  with  his  assistance  it  is  as  easy  to  do  one 
as  the  other." 

"  Do  you  say,  Bessie,  that  the  Church  means 
to  teach  in  this  place,  that  if  parents  and  spon 
sors  do  their  duty,  the  child  will  probably  bo 


BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

religious  so  soon  as  he  is  old  enough  to  un 
derstand  what  a  Christian  ought  to  do  and  be 
lieve?" 

"Yes,  Emma,  that  is  what  my  mother  told 
me  the  Church  teaches ;  not  in  every  individ 
ual  case  without  exception,  but  in  such  a  large 
majority  of  cases,  that  it  may  be  laid  down  as 
a  general  rule.  Our  Saviour  Christ,  in  suffer 
ing  the  little  children  to  come,  does  not  prom 
ise  to  bless  them  at  some  indefinite  time,  and 
on  some  unknown  conditions;  but  blesses  them 
then  and  there,  and  upon  conditions  which  those 
who  bring  them  are  fully  able  to  understand 
and  fulfil.  And  if  those  sponsors  'take  care,' 
(to  use  a  mother's  voice  of  affectionate  admoni 
tion,)  to  fulfil  their  promises,  and  diligently,  and 
patiently,  and  with  prayer,  teach  these  baptized 
children  'all  those  things  which  a  Christian 
ought  to  know  and  believe  to  his  soul's  health ;' 
or  if,  in  the  words  of  the  Bible,  instead  of  the 
Prayer  Book,  they  'train  up  a  child  in  the  way 
he  should  go,'  surely  you  will  believe  God  him 
self  when  He  tells  you  that  'when  he  is  old 
he  shall  not  depart  from  it?'  Yes,  Emma,  in 
the  baptismal  covenant  an  agreement  is  made 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  117 

on  tiie  part  of  the  Saviour  and  on  the  part  of 
the  child.  You  do  not  need  the  assurance  of 
the  Prayer  Book  to  make  you  believe  that  this 
promise  '  He,  for  his  part,  will  most  surely  keep 
and  perform.'  He  promises  to  the  child  all 
spiritual  blessings  while  on  earth,  and  finally 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  on  certain  conditions, 
which  the  sponsors  undertake  to  fulfil.  The 
Bible  tells  us,  that  our  Saviour  'cannot  deny 
himself;'  and  so  it  must  be  that  if  the  child 
never  receives  the  promised  blessings,  the  for 
feiture  must  rest  somewhere  else  than  upon 
Him  'who  cannot  lie.'  Now,  if  the  sponsors 
would  'surely  keep  and  perform?  their  vows, 
as  the  Saviour  keeps  his,  do  you  see  how  the 
child  could  help  being  religious,  so  soon  as 
he  is  old  enough  to  understand  Christian  obli 
gations?  The  Saviour  promises;  the  sponsor 
promises.  Now,  if  both  are  faithful,  must  not 
the  result  surely  follow?  Now,  as  the  Sav 
iour  cannot  fail  on  his  part,  is  it  strange,  when 
so  much  depends  upon  the  sponsor,  a  frail  hu 
man  being  surrounded  by  temptation  and  com 
passed  with  infirmity,  is  it  strange  that  the 
Church's  last  words,  as  she  sends  him  away. 


118  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

should  be:  'Take  care.  Such  fearful  results 
will  follow  unfaithfulness,  such  vital  interests 
depend  upon  you,  you  have  promised  so  much: 
take  care,  oh  my  child,  take  care !'  Is  it  strange, 
Emma?" 

But  Emma  did  not  answer;  and  presently 
she  said,  as  if  thinking  aloud : — 

"  What  a  mother,  Bessie,  you  must  have  had, 
thus  to  explain  to  you  all  difficulties,  and  make 
you  understand  all  these  things,  so  intricate  to 
those  who  read  them  for  the  first  time.  God 
has  granted  me  a  very  great  blessing  in  send 
ing  you  to  this  school  to  teach  me.  Others 
might  have  explained  this  passage  to  me  a 
long  while,  and  yet  I  doubt  if  I  should  ever 
have  fully  believed,  unless  I  had  seen  and 
known  you,  that  if  sponsors  'take  care,'  as  the 
Church  teaches,  the  baptized  children  will  al 
most  certainly  become  religious." 

"And  why,  Emma,"  asked  Bessie,  in  sur 
prise,  "will  you  be  more  willing  to  believe  it, 
since  you  have  seen  and  known  me  ?" 

"Because,"  she  replied  earnestly,  "all  that 
you  have  told  me  of  your  mother,  and  l  all  that 
you  have  taught  me,  go  to  prove  that  she  made 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  119 

this  experiment  fully  and  fairly.  I  believe  she 
did  faithfully  fulfil  all  the  promises  that  she 
made  for  her  children  when  they  were  bap 
tized,  and  see  the  result.  Did  you  not  tell  me 
that  your  little  sister  had  been  confirmed,  and 
had  received  the  Communion,  young  as  she 
was?" 

"Yes,  Emma.  The  Church,  except  in  very 
remarkable  instances  of  piety,  prefers  not  to 
admit  children  to  Confirmation  and  Communion 
until  they  are  fourteen  years  of  age,  because 
they  are  not  generally  capable  of  understanding 
the  Creed,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Ten  Com 
mandments,  and  the  other  parts  of  the  Church 
Catechism,  until  they  reach  at  least  that  age. 
But  so  clear  were  my  little  sister's  views  of 
religious  duty,  and  so  lovely  her  Christian  char 
acter,  that  she  was  admitted  to  all  the  privileges 
of  the  Church  when  only  eleven  years  old." 

"It  is  just  as  I  said,"  replied  Emma,  thought 
fully.  "Your  mother  'took  care.'  She  obeyed 
the  Church's  warning;  and  the  result  in  her 
case  is  a  powerful  commentary  upon  what  you 
have  taught  me  to-night.  One  child  wras  brought 
to  the  Bishop  to  be  confirmed  at  eleven,  the 


120  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

other  at  fourteen.  Yes,  Bessie,  I  believe  it,  and 
I  thank  you  for  this  more  than  for  all  your 
other  teachings.  I  confess  it:  when  I  glanced 
at  this  passage  I  was  amazed ;  yes,  I  was  more; 
I  was  horrified  that  a  Church  could  teach  the 
monstrous  doctrine  that  every  child  who  could 
say  the  Creed,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Ten 
Commandments,  is  ready  for  Confirmation.  I 
thought  you  surely  never  could  have  seen  this 
passage,  and  between  distress,  surprise,  and  hor 
ror,  I  felt  that  I  could  not  sleep  until  I  had 
asked  you  about  it.  And  now,  in  such  a  differ 
ent  light  does  it  appear,  since*!  have  your  mo 
ther's  interpretation  of  it,  that  I  would  not,  for 
any  thing,  have  it  expunged  from  the  Prayer 
Book.  It  is  so  solemn,  and,  withal,  so  affection 
ate  an  appeal,  so  like  a  mother,  afraid  lest  a 
wayward  child  should,  through  negligence  or  un 
faithfulness,  lose  a  great  blessing,  that  it  makes 
me  love  the  Prayer  Book  and  the  Church  all 
the  more.  Thank  you,  Bessie.  I  am  glad  I 
came.  I  shall  go  to  bed  contented  and  thank 
ful." 

"My  dearest  Emma,   I  shall    never  be   able 
to  tell  you  how  much  I  love  to  help  you  in 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  J.21 

your  difficulties,  and  explain  them  away.  .But 
before  you  go,  let  me  tell  you  one  thing'  do 
not  be  too  hasty  in  your  judgments.  Now,  in 
this  very  case,  it  happens  that  the  Church  has 
so  carefully  guarded  her  words,  that  it  only  re 
quires  an  attentive  reading  to  understand  her 
meaning ;  but,  suppose  it  had  not  been  so ;  sup 
pose  that  this  injunction,  at  the  close  of  the 
Baptismal  Office,  should  read  thus :  '  This  child 
must  be  brought  to  the  Bishop  to  be  confirmed 
by  him  so  soon  as  he  shall  be  able  to  say  the 
Creed,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  Ten  Com 
mandments,'  even  then,  Emma,  your  interpre 
tation  of  it  would  have  been  very  unfair." 

"How  so,  Bessie?" 

"Because,  Emma,  it  is  always  unfair  to  take 
an  isolated  sentence  out  of  any  book,  and  give 
that  as  the  teaching  of  the  book.  It  is  in  this 
way  that  so  many  opposing  doctrines  have  been 
wrested  from  the  Bible,  by  taking  isolated  texts 
and  giving  undue  prominence  to  them,  and 
making  a  doctrine  founded  upon  them  neces 
sary  to  salvation.  Now,  in  studying  the  Prayer 
Book,  you  must  compare  passage  with  passage, 

so  as  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  whole ;   and  if 
11 


122  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

tliis  direction  had  been  written  as  I  have  read 
it  to  you,  you  should  not  have  founded  any 
opinion  upon  it  until  you  had  turned  to  the 
Confirmation  Office,  to  see  what  was  there  re 
quired  of  the  candidate;  and  when  you  there 
read,  that  he  acknowledges  himself  'bound  to 
believe  and  do  all  that  his  sponsors  undertook 
for  him  at  his  baptism,'  you  should  then  refer 
to  the  Baptismal  Office,  and  see  what  that  was. 
You  will  there  find  that  he  '  renounced  the  devil 
and  all  his  works,  the  vain  pomp  and  glory  of 
the  world,  with  all  covetous  desires  of  the  same, 
and  the  sinful  desires  of  the  flesh ;'  that  he  pro 
fessed  his  belief  in  '  all  the  articles  of  the  Chris 
tian  faith,  as  contained  in  the  Apostles'  Creed,' 
and  desired  to  be  baptized  in  that  faith ;  and 
promised,  'by  God's  help  obediently  to  keep* 
God's  holy  will  and  commandments,  and  to  walk 
in  the  same  all  the  days  of  his  life.'  "What 
more  than  this  it  requires  to  qualify  a  Chris 
tian  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell;  and  any  body 
that  believes  and  does  all  these  things,  is  sure 
ly  entitled  to  all  the  privileges  of  the  Church. 
So  you  see,  Emma,  that,  under  any  circum 
stances,  you  entirely  misconstrued  this  passage; 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  123 

and  I  only  beg  that  you  will  learn  from  it  a 
lesson  against  rushing  too  rapidly  to  conclusions. 
The  Church  was  so  very  careful  to  guard  against 
misconstruction  here,  that  she  hedged  in  this 
injunction  with  every  safe-guard;  but  yet  you 
see  that  you  did  not  heed  them,  but,  dismayed 
by  a  single  glance,  you  came  in  to  me,  ready 
to  abandon  the  book  whose  doctrines  and  teach 
ings  and  prayers  and  praises  you  have  all  along 
admired  as  so  perfectly  scriptural.  Do  not  think, 
Emma,  that  I  am  finding  fault ;  I  only  tell  you 
for  your  comfort.  When  you  come  across  a 
difficult  and  mysterious  passage  in  the  Prayer 
Book,  do  not  be  hasty  in  your  judgment;  be 
content  to  wait  a  little  while,  as  you  do  in  study 
ing  the  Bible,  and  see  if,  as  you  go  along,  light 
'is  not  thrown  upon  it  from  other  passages,  and 
much  of  its  hidden  mystery  disclosed." 

"I  will  try,  Bessie,  to  learn  a  lesson  from 
my  hasty  decision.  I  was  punished  for  it,  though 
only  for  a  little  while ;  for  when  I  came  in  I 
was  really  distressed  at  the  thought  of  having 
to  give  up  that  Prayer  Book,  which  I  did  not 
know  before  I  had  learned  to  love  so  well." 

"  I  can  readily  believe,  Emma,  that  you  were 


124  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

grieved,  for  I  saw  it  plainly  written  on  your 
countenance.  I  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile 
when  I  saw  your  expression  of  dismay  and  sor 
row.  Good-night,  dear  Emma ;  and  let  me  add 
one  thing  more  :  hereafter,  in  studying  Churcl- 
teachings,  take  heed  to  the  Church's  warning . 
'Take  care.'  Do  not  be  hasty  in  conclusion, 
or  superficial  in  reading ;  but  '  take  care'  to 
study  deeply  and  draw  just  inferences,  and,  so 
far  from  this  injunction  frightening  you  away 
from  the  Baptismal  Office,  learn  from  it  how 
closely  the  Church  follows  in  the  footsteps  of 
her  Blessed  Lord.  He  called  the  little  children 
to  Him,  and  laid  his  hands  upon  them  and 
blessed  them ;  and  she  calls  the  little  babes 
to  her,  and  takes  them  in  her  arms,  and  blesses 
them,  in  his  name ;  and  when  she  gives  them 
back  to  their  human  guardians  to  train  for  her 
service  and  her  Saviour's,  with  a  mother's  yearn 
ing  heart  she  follows  them,  and  uplifts  a  moth 
er's  voice  as  she  pleads :  '  Take  care ;  take  care 
of  my  baptized  children  1' " 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  125 

9 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  0 !  lovely  voices  of  the  sky 

Which  hymn'd  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Are  ye  not  singing  still  on  high, 
Ye  that  sang  'Peace  on  earth'? 
To  us  yet  speak  the  strains 

Wherewith,  iu  times  gone  by, 
Ye  blessed  the  Syrian  swains, 
0  voices  of  the  sky !" 

HEMANS. 

CHRISTMAS  morning  found  Bessie  at  the  com 
fortable  fireside  of  Mr.  "Walton,  who  had,  on  the 
previoi  s  evening,  quietly  but  affectionately  wel 
comed  to  his  house  his  young  daughter's  friend. 
From  Emma's  mother  Bessie  had  received  a 
more  lemonstrative,  but  not  more  cordial  wel 
come;  and  Mrs.  Walton,  who,  as  Emma  had 
told  Bessie,  thought  sympathy  the  healer  of  all 
earthly  griefs,  was  determined,  by  every  atten 
tion  and  kindness,  to  make  her  guest  comfort 
able  and  happy,  and  to  dispel,  as  far  as  possible, 
the  shade  of  sadness  which  rested  on  a  very 
11* 


120  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

• 

lovely  countenance,  too  young,  as  she  thought, 
to  be  thus  clouded.  It  was  at  once  evident 
to  Bessie,  that  the  hearts  of  both  parents  were 
bound  up  in  their  eldest  daughter.  Their  watch 
fulness  of  her  every  movement,  and  the  expres 
sion  of  affectionate  pride  which  gleamed  in  the 
father's  eye  could  not  be  mistaken.  Bessie  saw 
at  once  that  Emma  was  the  ruling  spirit  at 
home,  and  she  wondered  still  more  than  ever 
that  such  indulgence  had  not  spoiled  the  love 
liness  of  her  character;  that  she  should  be,  in 
spite  of  it  all,  so  unselfish,  so  considerate  of  the 
comfort  of  others,  so  much  disposed  to  consult 
the  feelings  and  wishes  of  all,  where  site  might, 
if  she  had  chosen,  have  completely  tyrannized. 

It  was  quite  late  when  they  arrived  the  night 
before,  and,  as  yet,  Bessie  had  not  seen  all  the 
household.  She  arose  early  on  Christmas  morn 
ing  that  she  might  have  some  little  time  to  col 
lect  her  thoughts,  and  realize  that,  while  it  was 
a  festive  day,  it  was  also  one  of  sacred  thanks 
giving,  whose  hours  she  might  not  consume  in 
levity  and  frivolity.  In  the  breakfast-room  she 
found  the  family  assembled,  waiting  for  the 
girls.  Father,  mother,  Charles,  and  Lucy,  with 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  127 

whose  names  Bessie  had  been,  for  months,  sc 
familiar  that  she  could  not  feel  altogether  a 
stranger  among  them,  were  seated  around  a 
blazing  fire,  whose  cheerful  glow  was  scarcely 
more  radiant  than  their  faces,  beaming  with 
pleasure  at  having  daughter  and  sister  once 
more  with  them.  The  servants  all  came  throng 
ing  in  to  see  Miss  Emma,  and  their  glad  coun 
tenances,  as  well  as  their  words  of  welcome, 
attested  the  sincerity  of  their  pleasure ;  and  old 
nurse,  with  a  familiarity  peculiarly  her  own, 
clasped  her  in  a  warm  embrace,  and  assured 
her  that  "  indeed  the  school  air  must  agree  with 
her,  for  she  was  even  prettier  than  ever."  The 
congratulations  of  the  season  were  cordially  ex 
changed,  and  a  sumptuous  breakfast,  now  spread 
upon  the  table,  promised  successfully  to  tempt 
the  appetite  of  the  young  girls,  so  long  accus 
tomed  to  the  very  plain  food  of  a  boarding- 
school.  As  Bessie  removed  the  napkin  from 
her  plate,  a  slight  resistance  arrested  her  atten 
tion,  and  she  perceived  within  its  folds  a  smalJ 
morocco  case,  on  which  was  written : — 


128  BESSIE     MELrVILLE. 


"A    CHRISTMAS   GIFT   FOR   BESSIE, 
FROM 

EMMA'S  FATHER." 


Very  much  surprised,  she  opened  it,  and  saw 
a  beautiful  locket  breast-pin,  which,  however, 
contained  no  miniature.  The  explanation  flash 
ed  at  once  upon  her  mind.  She  had  often  ex 
pressed  to  Emma  a  wish  to  have  her  mother's 
miniature  handsomely  set  in  a  locket-pin,  and 
since  her  determination  to  visit  the  city,  she 
had  manifested  great  pleasure  at  the  opportu 
nity  that  would  then  be  afforded  her  of  attend 
ing  to  it  personally,  and  having  it  done  entire 
ly  to  her  satisfaction.  With  delicate  forethought 
Emma  had  intimated  to  her  father  her  unwill 
ingness  that  her  own  plate  should  on  Christ 
mas  morning  be  heaped  with  presents  while 
her  friend's  was  empty,  and  had  suggested  that 
a  large  proportion  of  the  money  so  lavishly  ex 
pended  on  herself  at  that  time  should  now  be 
appropriated  to  the  purchase  of  this  present  for 
Jessie,  which  she  accurately  described.  The  in 
dulgent  fa!  her  had  all  ended  to  his  daughter's 
request  in  every  particular  except  one;  the  pur- 


BESSIE.  MELVILLE.  129 

chase  of  the  breast-pin  had  not  diminished  ei 
ther  the  number  or  the  value  of  Emma's  pres 
ents,  but  he  had,  according  to  her  wish,  secured 
the  very  handsomest  pin  of  that  description 
which  the  city  could  afford.  It  was  writh  great 
difficulty  that  Bessie  -could  control  herself  suf 
ficiently  to  thank  Mr.  Walton  for  his  kindness. 
She  was  not  only  deeply  touched  by  this  unex 
pected  attention  from  one  to  whom  she  was  an 
utter  stranger,  but  a  holier  chord  than  that  of 
gratitude  vibrated  both  pleasingly  and  pain 
fully,  as  she  remembered  those  happy  Christ 
mas-days  of  childhood  in  which  a  fond  mother 
so  carefully  provided  for  the  surprise  and  pleas 
ure  of  herself  and  her  sister.  For  an  instant 
she  forgot  every  thing,  and  her  breakfast  -was 
untasted  before  her,  and  good  Mrs.  Walton, 
who  was  always  distressed  when  her  guests 
seemed  to  have  no  appetite,  was  resolving  pri 
vately  to  caution  her  husband  against  doing  or 
saying  any  thing  hereafter  to  discompose  their 
nervous  young  guest,  especially  at  meal-time. 

Bessie  was  soon  recalled  to  herself  by  Em 
ma's  exclamations  of  delight,  as  she  unfolded 
one  and  another  of  the  raanv  beautiful  and  val- 


130  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

uable  presents  which  were,  on*  and  underneath 
and  around  her  plate,  and  behind  which  she 
actually  seemed  intrenched  as  behind  fortilica- 
tions.  Bessie  admired  them  all,  and  entered 
cordially  into  her  friend's  delight,  and  at  last 
both  the  girls  had,  to  Mrs.  "Walton's  great  sat 
isfaction,  finally  settled  themselves  down  to  the 
enjoyment  of  their  breakfast,  W7hen  a  second 
interruption  seemed  likely  to  prove  entirely  fa 
tal  to  Bessie's  meal.  A  light,  quick  footstep 
in  the  passage,  a  hasty  entrance  into  the  room, 
a  cordial  exchange  of  greetings:  "Emma,  I  am 
so  glad  you  are  come;"  "Mary,  I  am  delight 
ed  to  see  you ;"  a  warm  embrace  and  an  affec 
tionate  kiss,  all  followed  each  other  in  such 
rapid  succession,  that  Bessie  was  only  aware 
that  some  other  of  Emma's  friends  had  come 
in  to  welcome  her.  Mr.  Walton  immediately 
spoke. 

"  Miss  Seymour,  here  is  our  young  friend,  Bes 
sie  Melville.  I  give  both  the  girls  into  your 
charge,  only  requesting  that  you  will  make  them 
as  happy  as  possible  during  their  holidays." 

Bessie  looked  up  at  the  stranger  and  started, 
as  if  stricken  by  a  thunder-bolt.  Every  one  at 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  131 

the  table  noticed  it,  but  Emma  alone  understood 
it ;  she  at  once  perceived  that  Bessie,  as  well 
as  herself,  had  been  struck  by  the  remarkable 
resemblance  between  Miss  Seymour's  face  and 
that  of  her  mother's  miniature.  Bessie  said  not 
a  word,  but  gazed  with  a  kind  of  fascination 
upon  a  face  almost  the  counterpart  of  her  mo 
ther's,  even  when  she  first  remembered  it,  and 
the  resemblance  to  which  must  have  been  yet 
more  striking  in  early  youth.  She  had  told 
Emma,  and  truly  too,  that  no  artist's  skill  could 
ever  transfer  to  ivory  her  mother's  eyes ;  and 
yet  she  saw  them  before  her  now,  reproduced 
with  wonderful  accuracy  both  in  color  and  ex 
pression,  and  looking  upon  her  with  that  same 
indescribable  lustre  which  she  thought  that  death 
and  the  grave  had  forever  quenched. 

Mary  Seymour  laid  aside  her  bonnet,  and  the 
soft,  beautiful  hair  which  was  then  revealed,  and 
the  rich  glow  which  mantled  upon  her  cheeks, 
made  hers,  indeed,  a  countenance  lovely  to  look 
upon.  At  least  so  she  appeared  to  Emma  and 
to  all ;  but  Bessie  saw  not,  thought  not,  of 
beauty ;  she  only  knew  that  she  was  strangely 
like  her  mother. 


132  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"  And  where  have  you  been,  thus  early,  Mary  ?" 
inquired  Mr.  Walton. 

"  To  church,  Mr.  "Walton,"  replied  she.  "  You 
know  that  we  have  service  at  St.  Paul's  at  sun 
rise  on  Christmas-day." 

"  "Well,  well,"  said  he,  good-humoredly,  "  none 
but  industrious  people  should  ever  join  your 
Church ;  and  then,  too,  they  should  have  a  good 
stock  of  patience,  for  it  makes  very  large  de 
mands  upon  one's  time,  and  always  chooses  the 
holidays,  too,  to  call  you  to  service.  I  know 
one  little  damsel,  not  very  far  off,  (with  a  merry 
glance  at  Emma,)  who  is  far  too  lazy  to  make 
an  Episcopalian.  I  would  like  to  see  you  get 
her  up  to  morning  service  at  sunrise." 

"Indeed,  father,"  said  Emma,  laughing,  "you 
must  not  slander  me  so.  I  only  wish  I  had 
known  that  Mary  was  going  to  church  this  morn 
ing,  and  you  would  have  been  surprised,  I  know  ; 
but,  nevertheless,  I  would  very  gladly  have  ac 
companied  her." 

"  Nonsense,  child,"  replied  her  father.  "  1 
have  always  heard  that  a  child  sent  to  an  Epis 
copal  school  will,  most  probably,  become  at 
tached  to  the  forms  of  that  Church,  but  I  can 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  133 

never  be  made  to  believe  that  three  months  at 
the  school  could  have  worked  such  a  mighty 
revolution  in  my  daughter  as  to  make  her  will 
ing  to  leave  her  comfortable  bed  at  sunrise  on 
Christmas  morning,  of  all  mornings  in  the  year, 
to  go  to  church.  JSTo,  no,  Emma ;  you  must 
tell  that  to  somebody  who  does  not  know  you 
so  well  as  papa." 

"I  tried  very  hard,"  said  Miss  Seymour,  "to 
arouse  Lucy  this  morning,  and  get  her  to  ac 
company  me ;  but  she  seemed  to  be  in  a  sleep 
so  profound  as  almost  to  resemble  stupor.  I 
shrewdly  suspected,  however,  all  the  time,  that 
if  any  one  had  stood  by,  and  very  quietly  spo 
ken  of  an  elegant  Christmas  gift  which  papa 
had  purchased  for  her,  she  would  not  have 
been  so  fast  asleep." 

"Yes,"  said  Lucy,  laughing,  "I  heard  yon 
all  the  time ;  but  I  knew  very  well,  that  if  I 
once  acknowledged  myself  awake,  there  would 
be  no  such  thing  as  getting  rid  of  you,  so  I 
concluded  that  the  wisest  plan  would  be,  to 
pretend  not  to  hear  you  at  all." 

Breakfast  passed  off  with  light,  good-humored 

conversation,  in  which  all  joined   except  Bessie. 
12 


13-i  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Her  silence  was  noted  by  all;  and  Mr.  Wal 
ton,  with  considerate  kindness,  tried  to  shield 
her  as  far  as  possible  from  observation,  by  talk 
ing  all  the  while.  He  saw  that  something  had 
greatly  disturbed  her,  and  his  feelings  and  sym 
pathies  had  been  too  strongly  awakened  in  her 
behalf  by  his  daughter,  for  him  to  feel  disposed 
to  blame  her  now,  for  a  silence  and  abstraction 
which,  in  another  person  and  under  other  cir 
cumstances,  he  should  have  regarded  as  very 
inconsiderate,  if  not  grossly  impolite. 

As  soon  as  she  could  make  her  escape,  Bessie 
left  the  table,  and  returned  to  her  own  room. 
"When  she  was  gone,  Mrs.  Walton's  curiosity 
broke  forth  in  the  inquiry: — 

"What  on  earth,  Emma,  is  the  matter  with 
your  young  friend  ?  If  Mary  had  been  a  Medu 
sa's  head,  she  could  not  have  produced  a  more 
astounding  transformation.  The  child  seemed 
actually  turned  into  stone  from  the  moment 
that  Mary  Seymour  entered  the  room." 

"I  can  explain  it  all,  mother.  You  know  it 
lias  only  been  five  or  six  months  since  Bessie 
lost  her  mother;  and  from  the  reverent  manner 
in  which  she  always  speaks  of  her,  and  the  ac- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  135 

curacy  with  which  she  remembers  what  she 
taught  her,  and  her  constant  desire  and  effort 
to  do  what  her  mother  would  approve  if  she 
were  here ;  from  all  these  things  I  suppose  that 
never  did  a  child  so  nearly  worship  a  mother  as 
Bessie  did  hers.  She  thinks,  too,  that  she  was 
the  most  beautiful  being  that  ever  lived,  and 
has  a  miniature  of  her,  taken  very  soon  after 
her  marriage,  which  certainly  is  a  most  love 
ly  picture.  "When  she  showed  it  to  me  the  first 
time,  I  told  her  that  it  was  beautiful  indeed, 
and  that  I  knew  a  person  strikingly  like  it. 
She  seemed  very  incredulous,  and  told  me  that 
this  was  impossible,  for  she  could  not  believe 
that  her  mother's  expression,  and  especially  her 
eyes,  could  be  duplicated.  But  the  moment 
Mary  came  in,  I  saw  at  once  that  the  resem 
blance  seemed  even  more  striking  to  her  than 
it  did  to  me  ;  and  when  I  saw  her  become  so 
suddenly  white  as  she  looked  up  into  Mary's 
face,  I  was  truly  thankful  that  no  worse  conse 
quences  followed  than  her  being  stricken  dumb." 
"There,"  said  Mr.  Walton,  with  an  expression 
of  satisfaction.  "I  knew  that  it  could  all  be 
explained  so  as  to  exonerate  her  from  every 


136  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

imputation  of  discourtesy  or  ill-breeding.  That 
child's  face  would  have  interested  and  attracted 
me,  even  if  I  had  never  heard  of  her  through 
Emma.  Such  a  face  can  only  be  the  index  to 
a  lovely  character ;  and  all  you  have  just  said, 
Emma,  about  her  remarkable  reverence  and  de 
votion  to  her  mother,  renders  her  still  more  at 
tractive  to  me." 

"  Yes,  father ;  and  the  more  you  know  of 
her,  the  more  you  will  love  her.  I  never  saw 
so  young  a  person  so  thoroughly  imbued  with 
Christian  principle,  and  so  constantly  guided  by 
it.  In  this  respect  she  is  veiy  remarkable,  and 
religion  seems  in  her  beautiful  and  attractive. 
I  owe  Bessie  a  great  deal,"  she  added,  thought 
fully,  and  with  emphasis. 

The  depth  of  feeling  with  which  Emma  spoke 
these  words  could  not  but  be  observed,  and  yet 
none  dared  ask  what  she  meant  by  them,  for 
each  felt  that  it  was  not  a  question  to  be  an 
swered  in  the  assembled  family  circle,  bat  ra 
ther  in  the  unreserved  intercourse  of  a  private 
hour. 

They  were  all  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and 
Emma  resumed : 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  137 

"Her  mother  must  have  been  a  most  remark 
able  woman.  Bessie  has  never,  even  to  me,  hei 
most  intimate  friend,  spoken  of  her  in  terms  of 
extravagant  praise.  "With  all  her  passionate  lovt 
for  her,  she  has  never  told  me  that  she  was  th« 
holiest  and  the  purest  Christian  that  ever  lived 
She  seems  to  look  upon  her  as  far  beyond  all 
human  praise,  and  all  that  I  know  of  her  mo 
ther's  character,  I  have  inferred  from  what  she 
has  told  me  of  her  teachings.  Father,  it  is  ab 
solutely  marvellous  to  see  what  clear  views  of 
religion  a  girl  of  sixteen  can  have,  and  as  to 
the  Bible  and  Prayer  Book,  she  is  perfectly 
familiar  with  both,  and  is  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  teachings  of  the  Church,  and  can  give 
you  the  reason  for  any  doctrine  or  custom,  and 
she  always  begins  her  explanation  by  taking 
her  Bible  and  turning  to  some  text,  or  number 
of  texts,  to  show  that  the  Church  has  Scripture 
authority  for  it;  for  she  seems  to  think  that  it 
would  be  very  horrible  to  introduce  into  the 
Church  any  teachings,  or  any  usages,  which  are 
repugnant  to  the  "Word  of  God.  And,  with  all 
this,  she  is  so  modest  and  unobtrusive.  "When 
I  first  began  to  ask  her  questions,  I  was  afraid 
12* 


138  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

that  she  would  show,  either  by  word  or  man 
ner,  that  she  thought  me  very  ignorant,  and  won 
dered  that  I  should  have  to  come  to  her  for 
Detraction,  when  she  was  no  older  than  myself ; 
but  never,  in  a  single  instance,  has  she  shown 
any  such  feeling.  She  never  seems  to  think 
that  she  deserves  any  credit  for  what  she  knows, 
but,  after  referring  to  the  Bible,  she  always  pre 
faces  what  she  adds  by  reverently  saying,  'My 
mother  told  me.'  Indeed,  I  have  found  a  valu 
able  friend,  and  she  is  the  first  young  companion 
I  ever  had  whom  I  loved  because  she  was  truly 
good.  I  was  at  first  attracted  to  Bessie  by  sym 
pathy,  because  I  saw  from  her  mourning-dress 
and  sad  face  that  she  had  lost  some  very  dear 
friend,  and  I  felt  deeply  for  her,  brought  under 
these  circumstances  into  the  midst  of  strangers, 
and  this  sympathy  at  once  awakened  in  her 
heart  an  affection  for  me  characterized  by  her 
ardent  enthusiasm,  and  she  has  for  me  the  love 
of  a  sister.  But,  even  if  this  were  not  so,  if  she 
were  actually  indifferent  to  me,  I  could  not  help 
loving  and  reverencing  her  character." 

This   conversation  had  presented  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.   Walton    an    entirely   new   phase    of    their 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  139 

daughter's  character.  Themselves  not  governed 
by  any  Christian  principles,  they  had  never  en 
deavored  to  instil  them  into  her  heart ;  and  to 
see  the  child  who  had  left  them  but  a  few 
months  before,  gay  and  frivolous,  now  showing 
a  depth  of  reflection  and  discernment  of  which 
they  believed  one  of  her  years  incapable,  and 
an  admiration  of  the  pure  and  holy  which  they, 
deemed  altogether  inconsistent  with  her  natu 
ral  disposition,  was  something  which  amazed 
them.  They  inferred  from  her  words,  that  this 
transformation  was  attributable  to  her  inter 
course  with  Bessie ;  but  this  rather  increased 
their  surprise,  for  they  could  not  at  all  under 
stand  that  one  so  young  could  wield  such  a 
powerful  influence  for  good,  and  at  the  same 
time  inspire  an  affection  which  almost  deepened 
into  reverence. 

They  were  all  silent  for  a  little  while,  and 
Mary  Seymour,  who,  as  well  as  Emma's  pa 
rents,  had  been  surprised  at  all  she  had  heard, 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  And  do  you,  Emma,  see  any  resemblance 
between  my  face  and  her  mother's  ?  I  should 
like  to  resemble,  in  appearance  at  least,  if  I 


1-iO  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

might  not  in  any  other  particular,  one  so  pure 
and  holy  as  you  have  described  her." 

"Yes,  Mary,  you  are  wonderfully  like  Mrs. 
Melville's  miniature." 

"  Emma,"  said  Mr.  "Walton,  "  can  you  not 
let  us  have  a  glimpse  of  this  miniature  ?  T  feel 
quite  a  curiosity  to  see  it,  for  I  think  it  is  very 
strange  that  it  should  be  so  much  like  Mary. 
There  must  be  some  fancy  in  it." 

"  No,  father,  indeed  it  is  not  fancy.  I  would 
like  to  convince  you  of  it  by  showing  it  to 
you ;  but  I  cannot  do  this.  After  a  while, 
when  Bessie  knows  you  better,  she  will  take 
great  pleasure  in  showing  it  to  you ;  but  she 
has  peculiar  notions  about  its  sacredness,  and 
would  almost  consider  it  a  sacrilege  for  any 
person  to  look  upon  it,  except  some  one  whom 
she  dearly  loved.  She  will  show  it  to  you,  la 
ther,  before  any  other  member  of  the  family, 
for  your  Christmas  gift  this  morning  opened  a 
direct  avenue  to  her  affections.  She  has  been 
talking  to  me,  for  weeks,  of  the  pleasure  she 
anticipated  in  attending  herself  to  the  setting 
of  that  miniature  in  a  locket  breast-pin ;  and 
she  will  value  that  present  from  yon,  more  than 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  141 

any  thing  you  could  possibly  have  given  her. 
She  seems  gentle  and  quiet,  and  yet,  as  I  told 
you  before,  she  is  full  of  impulse,  and  now  she 
will  love  you  as  long  as  she  lives,  because  you 
will  be  associated  with  her  mother's  miniature. 

« 

I  am  perfectly  confident  that  if  you  will  wait  a 
few  days  she  will  volunteer  to  show  it  to  you, 
and  if  she  does,  she  will  be  giving  you  the 
very  highest  proof  of  her  confidence  and  affec 
tion." 

"Well,  my  daughter,  I  am  truly  glad,  that 
my  present  proved  so  acceptable,  and  I  must 
thank  you  for  the  suggestion,  for  I  am  sure  that 
I  might  have  tried  a  long  while  to  think  what 
gift  she  would  most  value,  and  this  never  would 
have  occurred  to  me.  I  suppose  from  all  you 
have  told  me  of  Bessie's  thorough  acquaintance 
with  the  Prayer  Book,  that  she  must  be  an 
Episcopalian." 

"  Yes,  father,  she  is ;  and  although  she  would 
be  greatly  amazed  at  the  idea  of  herself  or  any 
one  else  being  an  ornament  to  the  Church,  yet 
that  is  just  what  I  think  she  is.  She  knows 
nothing  at  all  about  any  other  church  except 
her  own;  and  when  I  have  asked  questions 


BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

about  the  others,  she  seems  quite  as  ignorant 
as  I  am." 

"I  trust  her  mother  has  not  made  a  bigot 
of  her,"  said  Mr.  Walton  warmly. 

"If  by  a  bigot,  father,  you  mean  a  narrow- 
minded  religionist  who  measures  every  body 
by  his  own  contracted  views,  and  condemns  as 
wrong  all  who  follow  not  with  him,  then  is 
Bessie  farther  from  being  one,  than  any  pro 
fessed  Christian  I  ever  knew ;  but  if  by  the 
word  you  mean  one  who  believes  that  she  is 
in  the  right  Church,  who  loves  that  Church 
with  a  daughter's  affections,  and  confides  in  its 
teachings  with  a  daughter's  trust,  then  is  Bessio 
Melville  the  veriest  bigot  I  ever  saw." 

"Well,  how  is  it  then,  Emma,  that  she  knows 
nothing  except  what  is  taught  in  the  Episcopal 
Church?" 

"  I  asked  her  that  question  myself,  father,  and 
she  only  replied :  '  Because,  Emma,  mother  never 
taught  me.' " 

"  Well,  Emma,"  said  Miss  Seymour,  "  this  con 
versation  has  been  exceedingly  pleasant  to  me, 
and  makes  me  long  to  know  more  of  your  young 
friend.  I  am  not  flattering  you  when  I  say  that, 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  143 

by  no  means  the  least  recommendation  to  me 
s  the  fact,  that  she  has  thus  warmly  enlisted 
your  affections.  I  would  like  very  much  to  lis 
ten  longer  to  you,  but  the  clock  warns  me  to 
prepare  for  service  again.  Your  father,  I  see, 
is  about  leaving  for  his  morning  walk,  so  you 
will  be  left  alone  with  your  mother  and  Lucy, 
and  you  then  can  have  a  little  cozy  conversation 
while  all  the  rest  of  us  are  away." 

"No,  Mary,  you  will  not  leave  me,  for  I  am 
going  to  church  myself,  and  I  know  that  Bessie 
expects  to  go.  "We  will  be  ready  in  a  few  min 
utes  and  meet  you  in  the  parlor." 

"Why,  Emma,"  said  Mrs.  Walton,  "I  do  not 
see  any  necessity  for  your  going  with  Bessie. 
ISTow,  if  Mary  were  not  here,  politeness  would, 
of  course,  require  that  you  should  make  any  per 
sonal  sacrifice  to  gratify  your  guest  and  enable 
her  to  spend  the  day  in  the  manner  most  agree 
able  to  her,  but,  as  Mary  is  going  with  her,  I 
cannot  see  that  it  would  be  impolite  for  you  to 
remain  at  home." 

"My  dear  mother,"  said  Emma,  laughing, 
"you  give  me  credit  for  a  great  deal  more 
politeness  than  I  really  possess.  Indeed,  this 


144  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

never  entered  into  my  thoughts  at  all,  and  1 
have  been  just  selfish  enough  to  think  only  of 
gratifying  my  own  inclinations  when  I  deter 
mined  to  go  to  church.  I  ajjp  not  going  be 
cause  Bessie  will  expect  or  desire  it ;  I  am  going 
simply  to  please  myself."  * 

Mary  Seymour  and  Emma  now  left  the  room, 
leaving  Mrs.  Walton  musing  in  silent  wonder  up 
on  the  singular  change  which  had  been  wrought 
in  a  girl,  once  so  averse  to  going  to  church,  that 
it  required  all  a  mother's  influence  to  induce  her 
to  go  twice  on  Sunday,  while  now  she  seemed 
not  only  willing,  but  anxious,  to  go  upon  a  day 
which,  of  all  others,  the  young  prefer  to  spend 
in  festivity  and  amusement.  And  Mary  Seymour 
wondered,  too,  at  the  extraordinary  influence 
which  one  of  Bessie's  age  was  enabled  to  exert 
over  a  companion  as  old  as  herself,  and  longed 
to  know  more  of  that  mother  who  had  trained 
that  remarkable  child,  and  whom  she  was  said 
so  much  to  resemble. 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  115 


CHAPTER   VIIL 

••  Oh !   say  not,  dream  not,  heavenly  notes 

To  childish  ears  are  vain; 
That  the  young  mind  at  random  floats, 

And  cannot  reach  the  strain. 
Dim  or  unheard,  the  words  may  fall, 

And  yet,  the  heaven-taught  mind 
May  learn  the  sacred  air,  and  all 
The  harmony  unwind." 

KEBLE. 

DURING  the  three  months  that  had  passed  since 
Bessie's  departure,  things  had  gone  on  very 
quietly  at  the  rectory.  The  family  circle  was 
now  reduced  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  and 
Mary,  Willie  having  been  sent  off  to  school. 
The  quiet  monotony  of  their  life  was  only  varied 
by  letters  from  the  absent  children,  and  it  was 
part  of  their  weekly  duty  to  send  off  to  each  of 
them  a  faithful  picture  of  the  family  sayings  and 
doings.  To  Mary's  special  care  had  been  en 
trusted,  by  Bessie,  her  canary-bird,  the  sweet- 
singing  Jennie  Lind  of  her  childhood,  and  by 
13 


^•16  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Willie,  "  the  lamb ;"  and  to  her  own  childish  view 
she  seemed  burdened  by  a  heavy  responsibility, 
and  enlarged  in  dignity  and  importance  as  such 
valued  treasures  were  committed  to  her  keeping. 

It  was  Christmas  eve :  a  bright,  glowing  fire, 
a  nicely-spread  tea-table,  papa's  large  rocking- 
chair,  and  his  slippers  on  the  rug  before  the  fire 
becoming  comfortably  warm,  Mrs.  Kennedy  and 
her  little  girl  awaiting  the  return  of  the  husband 
and  father;  all  these  things  gave  to  that  small, 
but  neat,  apartment  such  a  home-like  aspect, 
that  one  could  almost  envy  him  for  whose  com 
fort  all  these  arrangements  had  been  made,  and 
whose  return  seemed  so  eagerly  expected. 

At  last  Mr.  Kennedy  came  in. 

"  Why,  papa,"  said  Mary,  "  what  makes  you 
so  late  to-night?" 

"  Well,  my  little  daughter,  I  have  had  a  great 
deal  to  do  to-day.  A  poor  sick  woman  sent  for 
me,  and  I  spent  two  hours  talking  with  her  and 
administering  the  Communion  to  her ;  and  I 
have  had  all  my  preparations  to  make  for  ser 
vice  to-morrow,  besides  being  sent  for  two  or 
three  times  by  the  ladies  at  the  church,  to  con 
sult  about  the  disposal  of  some  of  the  evergreens. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  147 

I  \vas  writing  in  my  study  until  quite  dark,  and 
on  my  way  home  I  remembered  that  I  had  not 
been  to  the  post-office  to-day,  and  so  I  went 
there.  This  is  why  I  am  so  late." 

"Any  letters?"  inquired  Mrs.  Kennedy,  anx 
iously. 

"  Yes ;  one  from  each  of  the  children.  Yon 
may  take  Bessie's,  as  that  is  for  you,  and  I  wrill 
read  Willie's." 

"And  what  will  I  do,  papa,  while  you  and 
mamma  are  both  reading  letters?" 

"You  will  be  very  quiet,  my  daughter,  and 
not  disturb  us,  and  when  we  have  finished,  I 
will  read  them  both  to  you." 

"  "Well,  papa,  I  will  try  and  sit  still  if  you  say 
so,  but  I  think  I  know  a  better  way  of  reading 
the  letters  than  that." 

"And  what  is  that,  Mary?" 

"I  think  if  you  would  read  them  aloud,  then 
you,  and  mamma,  and  I,  too,  could  all  hear 
them  together,  and  I  would  not  have  to  wait 
so  long." 

"Thank  you  for  the  suggestion,  Mary,"  said 
her  father,  laughing.  "  Yours  is  the  better  plan, 
and  I  will  adopt  it  so  soon  as  I  have  taken  off 


148  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

my  over-coat,  and  exchanged  my  boots  for  the 
nice  warm  slippers  which  you  have  so  thought 
fully  prepared.  So,  mother,  give  back  Bessie's 
letter.  You  cannot  read  it  alone,  but,  after 
Willie's,  I  will  read  it  aloud  for  the  benefit 
of  all." 

Mr.  Kennedy  was  soon  seated  in  his  rocking- 
chair,  and  drawing  the  lamp  close  to  him,  and 
putting  on  his  spectacles,  prepared  to  read  the 
letters.  He  broke  the  seal  of  "Willie's,  and  as 
his  eye  glanced  down  the  closely-written  pages, 
he  said : — 

"  This  promises  to  be  an  interesting  letter ; 
I  think  I  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  an  incident 
recorded  in  it. 

He  then  began  : — 

"Although,  my  dearest  father,  I  have  written 
home  only  two  days  ago,  yet  I  feel  that  I  must 
write  again,  this  very  night,  to  tell  you  of  a  re 
markable  circumstance  which  occurred  here  to 
day,  and  to  ask  for  counsel  as  to  what  I  am  to 
do.  In  this  retired  spot,  on  the  very  outskirts, 
as  it  were,  of  civilization,  and  far  removed  from 
the  busy  world,  you  will  scarcely  wonder  that 
among  thirty  boys,  any  thing  to  vary  the  dull 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  149 

monotony  would  be  hailed  with  pleasure,  and 
that  we  might,  perhaps,  be  tempted  to  attach 
undue  importance  to  incidents  which  in  more 
stirring  scenes  might  be  deemed  trivial ;  but  I 
think  that  any  one  would  acknowledge  as  re 
markable  the  occurrence  which  I  am  about  to 
relate. 

"We  were  all  assembled,  as  usual,  in  the 
chapel  this  morning,  and  the  service  had  begun. 
The  exhortation  was  being  read  when  the  door 
opened,  and  a  young  Indian  dressed  as  a  war 
rior  entered,  and  seated  himself  on  the  bench 
just  in  front  of  me.  This  was  an  unusual  cir 
cumstance,  though  not  by  any  means  an  extra 
ordinary  one,  for  as  the  Indian  country  is  not 
very  far  off,  it  has  happened  several  times,  since 
I  have  been  here,  that  Indian  youths  have 
brought  into  the  school-premises  moccasins, 
feather  ornaments,  and  other  specimens  of  their 
work  to  be  purchased  by  the  boys.  However, 
no  one  had  ever  before  strayed  into  the  chapel, 
and  his  presence  there,  a  heathen  Indian,  dress 
ed  in  the  habiliments  of  savage  warfare,  forming 
one  of  a  congregation  of  Christian  worshippers, 

seemed  very  strange  and  incongruous.     I  noticed 
13* 


150  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

with  surprise,  that  he  invariably  followed  our 
postures,  and  rose  up  and  sat  down  with  the 
rest  of  us,  and  behaved  himself  with  propriety 
and  reverence,  as  if  he  really  knew  where  he 
was,  and  what  he  was  doing.  But  the  most  re 
markable  thing  remains  to  be  told.  I  have  al 
ready  said  that  he  took  a  seat  immediately  in 
front  of  me,  and  I  must  acknowledge  that  his 
whole  demeanor  so  excited  my  curiosity,  that  I 
watched  him  more  narrowly  than  was  consistent 
with  my  own  devotions.  We  all  arose  to  re 
peat  the  Creed ;  his  side  face  was  turned  to 
wards  me,  and  as  the  first  words  were  pro 
nounced,  there  was  upon  his  countenance  a 
faint  gleam  of  recognition,  as  if  he  were  listen 
ing  to  some  old  but  long-forgotten  strain ;  and 
as  we  said,  'And  in  Jesus  Christ,  his  only  Son 
our  Lord,'  lowly  and  reverently  he  bowed  his 
head,  although  he  did  not  utter  a  word. 

"  As  soon  as  service  "was  over,  we  all  gather 
ed  around  him  in  the  yard,  and  began  to  ques 
tion  him,  but  he  only  replied  by  shaking  his 
head.  We  resorted  to  the  usual  expedients  of 
making  him  comprehend  us,  by  using  isolated 
words,  especially  those  referring  to  articles  of 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  151 

barter  and  trade,  for  we  have  sometimes  found 
that  when  the  Indians  accustomed  to  trade 
with  the  whites  could  not  understand  long  con 
nected  sentences,  we  could  convey  our  ideas  by 
means  of  simple  disconnected  words  pronounced 
very  slowly  and  distinctly.  But  all  this  we 
tried  in  vain,  and  we  saw,  by  the  stolid  expres 
sion  of  countenance  and  the  cold  dull  eye,  that 
he  was  not  acting  a  part,  but  that  he  really 
and  truly  did  not  receive  from  our  words  a  sin 
gle  idea. 

"We  were  all  utterly  baffled;  our  resources 
were  exhausted,  and  one  of  the  boys  cried  out, 
'  I  will  go  and  bring  old  Aunt  Dinah ;  she  can 
interpret  for  us.'  Aunt  Dinah  is  the  old  ser 
vant  who  cooks  for  us,  and  she  has  lived  on 
the  frontier  long  enough  to  become  sufficiently 
familiar  with  two  or  three  of  the  Indian  •  dia 
lects,  to  make  herself  understood.  But  while 
my  companion  went  to  summon  her,  a  sudden 
thought  flashed  across  my  mind.  I  remember 
ed  the  Creed,  and  concluded,  from  his  gesture 
and  manner  in  church,  that  he  must  be  famil 
iar  with  that.  I  walked  up  close  to  him,  fixed 
my  eye  upon  him,  and  very  slowly  and  distinct- 


152  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

ly  began: — 'I  believe  in  God,  the  Father  Al 
mighty.' 

"His  eye  kindled,  his  face  brightened,  his 
vigorous  form  expanded  into  its  full  erect 
height,  and  then  meekly  folding  his  hands,  as 
mother  taught  me  .to  do  when  I  could  first  lisp 
my  Belief,  he  repeated  it  with  me,  hesitatingly 
and  falteringly,  it  is  true,  but  with  sufficient 
distinctness  to  show  that  he  had  been  at  some 
time  of  his  life  familiar  with  those  words,  and 
as  before,  he  bowed  at  our  Saviour's  name. 

"Our  wildest  conjectures  were  entirely  at 
fault.  Our  teacher  came,  but  he  could  not 
communicate  with  him,  and  Aunt  Dinah's  so- 
called  Indian  language  seemed  as  unintelligible 
jargon  to  him  as  it  wras  to  us.  His  form  is  a 
splendid  one ;  erect  and  stately,  with  a  muscu 
lar  Development  which  indicates  great  strength 
combined  with  lightness  and  activity.  In  fig 
ure  he  is  a  genuine  Indian,  but  in  no  other 
respect.  His  eye  is  a  dark  blue,  with  a  singu 
larly  beautiful  expression ;  his  hair  is  what  we 
call  black,  but  still  not  of  that  raven  blackness 
which  belongs  to  his  race;  neither  is  it  stiff  ai.d 
coarse,  but  soft  and  flexible,  and  his  complex- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  153 

ion  seems  to  be  rather  bronzed  by  exposure  than 
originally    copper-colored. 

"  Of  course,  there  is  great  interest  awakened 
among  us,  and  our  curiosity  is  sorely  tried,  but 
the  mystery  never  can  be  solved  as  long  as  the 
insurmountable  barrier  of  language  prevents  all 
interchange  of  thought..  He  seemed  to  have  no 
intention  of  going  away,  and,  as  our  accommoda 
tions  are  very  strictly  limited  to  our  necessities, 
there  was  no  alternative  except  for  one  of  us 
to  share  our  room  with  him,  or  leave  him  to 
sleep  on  the  cold  ground  in  a  December  night. 
This  I  could  not  be  unfeeling  enough  to  allow, 
even  though  it  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  he 
has  endured  much  greater  hardships,  and  so  I 
brought  him  into  my  own  room,  where  he  is 
now  lying  on  the  floor,  wrapped  in  his  blanket 
and  apparently  enjoying  refreshing  sleep.  I 
pointed  to  the  bed  and  closed  my  eyes,  to  inti 
mate  that  he  might  sleep  there,  but  he  shook 
his  head  and  laid  himself  down  in  front  of  the 
fire.  I  have  conversed  with  our  teacher  about 
him,  and  his  curiosity  seems  to  have  been  quite 
as  much  excited  as  that  of  the  boys.  He  does 
not  think  that  he  can  have  belonged  to  one  of 


15-i  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

the  mission  schools,  because,  in  that  event,  lie 
would  have  learned  the  Creed  in  his  own  lan 
guage  and  not  in  ours.  And  yet,  the  very  fact 
that  he  can  repeat  it  in  our  own  tongue  seems 
to  give  the  assurance  that  at  some  time  of  his 
life  he  must  have  been  more  or  less  familiar 
with  the  language,  and  awakens  the  hope  that 
if  we  could  only  revive  his  acquaintance  with 
it,  we  would  have  some  basis  on  which  to  con 
struct  a  Christian  education.  "We  would  not 
have  first  to  unlearn  him  all  the  degrading 
teachings  of  heathenism,  but  would  find  ready 
for  us  the  articles  of  a  pure  Christian  faith,  on 
which  to  rear  the  superstructure  of  a  religious 
life.  I  can  scarcely  make  you  understand,  my 
dear  father,  how  this  incident  has  excited  and 
interested  me.  One  would  think  that  my  quiet, 
phlegmatic  temperament  had  caught  somewhat 
of  Bessie's  enthusiasm  and  ardor,  as  in  the  last 
few  hours  my  imagination  has  run  riot  in  de 
vising  a  thousand  plans,  alike  impracticable  to 
sober  sense,  for  the  education  of  this  young  In 
dian.  Our  teacher  smiles  provokingly  at  all  my 
suggestions,  and  brings  down  all  my  flights  of 
fancy  with  the  prosy  reply,  'This  is  very  well. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  155 

Willie,  if  we  could  only  do  it ;  but  suppose,  as 
is  most  probable,  that  to-morrow  morning  your 
young  protege  should  quietly  turn  his  back  up 
on  the  school-grounds  and  return  to  his  forest 
home,  how  would  you  detain  him  ?  how  make 
him  understand  all  your  philanthropic  purposes 
with  regard  to  him?  how  convey  to  his  mind 
that  you  are  generous  enough  to  be  willing  your 
self  to  go  to  work  to  defray  the  expenses  of  his 
education,  and  have  him  trained  for  a  mission 
ary  to  his  own  people?'  This,  father,  is,  I  con 
fess,  an  apparently  insurmountable  obstacle;  but 
I  am  not  willing,  as  yet,  to  yield  to  it.  There 
is,  there  must  be,  some  avenue  to  his  under 
standing  much  more  easily  reached  than  it  would 
be  if,  a  totally  untutored  savage,  he  had  never 
heard  of  that  name  of  Jesus,  at  the  sound  of 
which  he  now  so  reverently  bows.  The  mission 
aries  to  the  Indian  tribes  are  not  deterred  from 
their  work  of  love  by  having  to  learn  thoroughly 
a  savage  language:  why  should  I  yield  without 
an  effort  when  I  have,  at  least,  the  hope  of 
being  able,  before  a  great  while,  to  communi 
cate  with  him  in  my  own?  Father,  I  am  de 
termined  to  try.  You  know  that  you  and  my 


156  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

mother  consecrated  me,  in  my  infancy,  to  the 
missionary  work,  and  have,  thus  far,  trained  me 
to  look  forward  to  it  as  my  profession.  It  may 
be,  that  this  very  circumstance  may  be  the  means 
of  pointing  out  to  me  in  what  part  of  the  mis 
sionary  field  God  designs  me  to  work;  and  if 
successful  in  opening  the  mind  and  heart  of  one 
Indian  to  religious  truth,  why  could  I  not  teach 
another,  and  even  hundreds  more?  I  hope,  my 
dear  father,  that  you  may  not  think  me  as  chi 
merical  as  my  teacher  evidently  does.  Of  course, 
a  boy  cannot  be  expected  to  weigh  probabilities 
and  sec  difficulties  with  the  eye  of  maturer  age. 
Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  that  I  will  have  the 
sympathy  and  approbation  of  both  my  parents, 
who  will  believe  that,  however  deficient  in  abil 
ity  to  execute  my  purposes,  I  am,  nevertheless, 
actuated  by  a  sincere  desire  to  do  good,  and  to 
lead  an  ignorant  human  being  to  a  knowledge 
of  our  great  and  good  Father  in  Heaven. 

"My  plans,  as  yet  crude  and  unformed,  are 
somewhat  thus.  If  I  can  succeed  in  keeping  this 
youth  here  a  few  weeks,  I  know  that  I  can  by 
that  time,  learn  to  talk  with  him,  at  least  by 
signs;  although  my  first  attempt  shall  be  to  so' 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  157 

if  he  did  not  once  know  more  of  the  English  lan 
guage  than  merely  how  to  repeat  the  Apostles' 
Creed.  I  can  succeed  in  conveying  to  him  some 
faint  idea  of  my  intentions  with  regard  to  him, 
but  then  even,  with  his  full  concurrence  in  my 
plans,  I  meet  just  here  another  great  obstacle. 
"Where  am  I  to  get  the  money  to  educate  him? 
Could  you  not  succeed  in  awakening  some  in 
terest  in  him  in  your  parish  ?  I  am  fully  aware 
that  the  church  is  small,  and  that  there  are  very 
heavy  demands  made  yearly  upon  the  liberality 
of  its  members,  but,  dear  father,  do  try  and  see 
if  you  cannot  help  me ;  and  tell  little  Mary,  too, 
(who  has  a  good  deal  of  Bessie's  enthusiastic 
nature,  and  whose  dilated  eyes  I  should  like  to 
see  as  you  read  to  her  about  this  Indian  warrior, 
with  his  blanket  and  moccasins,  his  bow  in  his 
hand  and  quiver  at  his  back,  and  his  scalp-lock 
tied  on  the  top  of  his  head ;)  tell  her  that  brother 
Willie  says  she  must  speak  to  the  little  Sunday- 
ichool  children  about  it,  and  see  if  they  will  not 
all  agree  to  work  and  get  some  money  to  have 
this  Indian  taught  to  read  his  Bible  and  Prayer 
Book,  and  to  be  a  sincere  Christian. 

"I  have  written  you,  my  dear  father,  a  ve^y 
14 


158  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

long  letter ;  to  any  one  else  I  would  apologize  foi 
thus  taxing  his  patience,  but  I  know  full  well  witf 
what  pleasure  all  my  letters,  however  prosy,  are 
read  by  my  kind  parents ;  and  that  you  will  both 
be  interested  in  reading  this,  if  for  no  other  rea 
son,  because  I  have  been  interested  in  writing  it. 
It  is  growing  very  late,  and  as  we  are  aroused  a< 
day-light,  I  must  now  stop  and  go  to  bed ;  al 
though,  if  I  consulted  my  own  inclination,  I  could 
write  all  night  about  what  my  teachef  calls  my 
Indian  protige.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  when 
I  was  talking  to  him  about  his  education,  and 
how  to  devise  the  means  for  it,  with  a  provok- 
ingly  incredulous  smile,  he  said  that  if  we  could 
manage  to  keep  him  and  teach  him  English,  he 
would  undertake  his  education  at  half  price.  I 
will  write  again,  in  a  day  or  two,  and  let  you 
know  the  state  of  things.  Warmest  love  for 
yourself,  mother  and  little  sister.  I  had  a  letter 
from  Bessie  yesterday.  She  seems  contented  at 
school,  and  says  she  has  found  there  a  very  lovely 
friend.  "  Your  devoted  son, 

"  WILLIE." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy,  as  he  laid  down 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  159 

the  closely  written  sheets,  "  this  is  a  long  letter, 
and,  to  me,  a  very  interesting  one.  Willie  is  a 
little  hasty  in  his  plans,  it  is  true,  and  I  am 
afraid,  too  sanguine  of  success ;  but  I  can  excuse 
the  fault  for  the  sake  of  the  motive.  Boys  of  his 
age  are  not  often  too  hasty  in  trying  to  do  good. 
Wife,  that  youth  promises  to  be  a  great  comfort 
to  us  in  our  declining  years." 

"Indeed  he  does,"  replied  Mrs.  Kennedy.  "As 
he  says,  we  consecrated  him  to  the  missionary 
work  in  his  infancy,  and  however  great  the  strug 
gle  to  give  him  up,  yet,  if  I  live  to  see  him  a 
faithful  missionary,  no  matter  where,  the  dearest 
wish  of  my  heart  will  be  fulfilled." 

"Mamma,"  said  Mary,  "may  I  ring  the  bell 
for  Julia  to  get  a  candle  and  go  up-stairs  with 
me  2" 

"  What  for,  Mary  ?"  inquired  her  mother. 

"I  want  to  get  my  cloak  and  bonnet  and 
gloves,  and  bring  them  all  down  here  in  the 
dining-room." 

"  And  what  is  that  for,  Mary  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  start,  in  the  morning,  the  very 
minute  I  have  finished  my  breakfast,  to  see  the 
little  girls  in  my  Sunday-school  class,  and  tell 


itiO  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

them  about  making  money  for  brother  Willie's 
Indian  boy,  aiid  it  will  be  losing  so  much  time, 
mamma,  to  have  to  go  up-stairs  and  look  for  all 
my  things." 

"Upon  my  word,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Kennedy, 
laughing,  "your  enthusiastic  haste  is,  if  possible, 
even  more  excessive  than  your  brother's.  But 
you  must  not  be  in  such  a  hurry;  you  must  wait 
until  you  hear  from  Willie  again.  Your  exer 
tions  and  trouble  would,  you  know,  be  very  use 
less  if  the  young  Indian  should  (as  your  brother 
says  he  may)  turn  his  back  upon  the  school  and 
never  see  it  any  more.  It  is  very  pleasant,  my 
daughter,  to  see  my  children  so  eager  to  do  good, 
arid  yet  I  must,  in  this  instance,  advise  a  little 
delay.  But  it  is  time  that  we  should  look  into 
Bessie's  letter ;  we  have  already  slighted  that  too 
long." 

He  then  read  aloud  the  letter,  written  in  Bes 
sie's  usual  style,  abounding  in  strong  epithets  ol 
aifection  and  warm  ebullitions  of  .feeling.  She 
told  them  of  her  intended  visit  to  Emma  Walton's 
home,  and  spoke  in  strong  terms  of  admiration 
of  the  character  of  her  new  friend  ;  and  as  she 
touched  upon  some  of  the  points  of  her  clianic- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  161 

ter,  she  manifested  a  discrimination  which  sur 
prised  Mr.  Kennedy,  and  assured  him  that  her 
affection,  however  sudden  in  its  rise,  was  not  at 
all  misplaced. 

When  he  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  Mrs. 
Kennedy  said,  "Do  you  not  feel  a  little  anxious, 
Mr.  Kennedy,  about  Bessie's  thus  forming  inti 
mate  friendships,  and  visiting  for  weeks  in  fami 
lies  of  which  we  know  nothing?  Would  it  not 
be  safer  to  write  to  her  and  advise  her  to  spend 
her  Christmas  holidays  at  school,  or,  if  she  prefers 
it,  to  come  back  home  ?  She  is  very  young  and 
easily  influenced  ;  it  would  be  a  great  pity  to  ex 
pose  her  to  any  influences  which  might  mar  the 
loveliness  of  her  Christian  character,  and  blight 
the  fruits  of  a  mother's  patient  toil  during  a 
whole  lifetime." 

"I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  use  any  of 
these  precautions,"  replied  her  husband.  "It  is 
strange  with  what  different  feelings  we  see  the 
child  of  a  Christian  mother  and  the  child  of  a 
godless  parent  launched  upon  the  sea  of  life. 
One  we  almost  certainly  expect  to  see  make 
fearful  shipwreck ;  the  other  will  be  tossed  and 
buft'eted  upon  the  waves  and  entangled  among 
14 


162  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

the  breakers,  but  in  the  end  we  hope  and  be 
lieve  that  he  will  safely  pass  them  all.  Bessie 
is,  as  you  say,  young,  excitable,  easily  influ 
enced  ;  such  is  her  natural  temperament,  and 
yet,  Christian  principles  have  been  so  deeply 
implanted  in  her  heart  from  her  earliest  child 
hood,  and  their  growth  so  carefully  watched  and 
promoted,  that  they  have  strengthened  with  her 
strength,  until  her  whole  being  is  under  their 
influence.  You  know,  wife,  that  one  of  the 
very  bulwarks  of  my  faith  is  my  belief  in  In 
fant  Baptism,  and  both  observation  and  expe 
rience  convince  me,  more  and  more  every  day, 
that  I  am  right  in  this  belief.  Now,  I  am  fully 
persuaded,  that  if  ever  a  human  being  did  faith 
fully,  conscientiously,  and  devoutly  fulfil  her 
part  of  the  Baptismal  obligation,  Mrs.  Melville 
was  that  person.  It  is  true,  that,  in  Jennie's  case, 
she  had  a  very  remarkable  child  to  guide  and 
instruct,  and  perhaps  some  persons  might  think 
that  her  unusual  piety,  at  so  early  an  age,  proved 
nothing  in  the  present  case;  but  with  Bessie  it 
was  very  different.  She  was  like  all  other  chil 
dren;  if  any  thing,  more  wayward,  impulsive,  and 
headstrong  than  children  usually  are; and  taking 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  103 

her  natural  disposition  into  consideration,  the  re 
sult  with  her  is  more  astonishing  than  it  was  with 
her  gentler,  more  docile,  sister.  Her  mother  faith 
fully  fulfilled  her  promises  made  at  her  child's 
baptism,  the  Saviour  could  not  but  fulfil  His, 
and  the  result  has  been  the  development  of  the 
hast}-,  impetuous  child  into  a  young  girl,  warm 
hearted  and  impulsive  still,  but  under  the  re 
straint  and  guidance  of  firm,  unwavering  Chris 
tian  principle.  I  am  not  afraid  to  trust  Bessie. 
It  is  true,  that  for  her  own  comfort,  I  would 
prefer  that  she  should  always  be  under  such  in 
fluences  as  would  best  promote  the  growth  of  her 
religion ;  but  under  any  circumstances  I  would 
never  anxiously  tremble  for  the  result.  I  would 
always  feel  assured  that  her  Christian  principle 
would  eventually  triumph.  I  know  nothing  of 
the  family  into  which  £he  is  going,  but  of  one 
thing  I  am  persuaded,  her  example  and  influence 
will  have  a  good  efifect;  I  see  it  already  in  the 
modest  manner  in  which  she  speaks  of  endeav 
oring  to  travel  over  with  her  new  friend  the 
very  same  ground  of  Bible  and  Prayer  Book 
teachings  which  her  mother  pursued  with  her. 
Just  put  away  now  all  anxieties  about  her ;  you 


164  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

may  depend  upon  it  that  the  Saviour,  who  prom 
ised  such  blessings  to  her  \vhen  she  had  a  moth 
er  to  guide  and  teach  her,  will  not  desert  her 
now  when,  an  orphan,  she  must  travel  alone  the 
devious  pathway  of  life.  I  believe  that  the  effi 
cacy  of  Infant  Baptism  extends  to  the  very  latest 
period  of  our  earthly  life;  and  when  its  just  re 
sults  do  not  follow,  I  am  persuaded  that  in  al 
most  every  instance  the  failure  may  be  traced 
to  unfaithfulness  on  the  part  of  the  sponsors. 
But  it  is  very  late,  and  I  am  afraid  that  unless 
I  go  to  bed,  I  shall  not  be  prepared  for  the 
duties  of  to-morrow." 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  165 


CHAPTER    IX. 

How  shall  I  make  him  understand?    Words 
Are  but  useless  sounds.     Babul,  thy  jargon  still 
Perpetuates  thy  folly,  though  thy  tower 
Is  crumbled  into  dust. 

WEARIED  with  his  late  hours  and  his  mental 
excitement,  Willie  Kennedy  slept  long  and  sound 
ly  the  morning  after  he  had  written  to  his  fa 
ther.  The  daylight  bell  failed  to  break  his  deep 
slumuers,  and  when  he  at  last  awoke,  the  bright 
December  sun  was  .streaming  in  at  his  window, 
and  his  first  consciousness  brought  with  it  the 
thought  that  for  this  unusual  sleep  he  must  pay 
the  penalty  of  a  forfeit  mark.  When  thorough 
ly  awake  he  recollected  the  companion  who  had 
shared  his  room,  but  the  Indian  was  gone,  and 
with  his  disappearance  all  Willie's  dreams  about 
the  pleasure  of  having  him  educated  and  his 
future  usefulness  among  his  own  people,  were 
scattered  as  suddenly  as  they  had  sprung  into 


166  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

existence.  After  a  hasty  toilet  lie  went  into  the 
yard,  but  all  was  quiet  there.  !N"ot  a  boy  was 
to  be  seen,  and  he  was  just  turning  to  enter 
the  school-room,  when,  in  the  extreme  corner  of 
the  grounds,  he  saw  a  figure  reclining  under  a 
spreading  oak.  He  approached  him  cautiously, 
thinking  that  he  might  be  asleep,  but  before  he 
could  get  near  enough  to  distinguish  any  thing,- 
except  that  it  was  a  human  being,  the  quick 
ear  of  the  young  Indian  detected  his  approach, 
and  springing  from  the  ground  he  came  to  meet 
him.  "Willie  made  several  signs  to  him  but  he 
only  shook  his  head,  while  not  a  gleam  of  intel 
ligence  lightened  up  his  face.  They  walked  to 
gether  towrards  the  oak  tree,  and  there  on  the 
grass,  beside  his  bow  and  quiver,  lay  Willie's 
Prayer  Book,  whose  accustomed  place  was  with 
his  Bible,  on  the  table  in  his  private  room. 
In  his  surprise,  Willie  eagerly  asked : 
"What  do  you  know  of  that  book?" 
A  shake  of  the  head,  in  reply,  reminded  him 
ihat,  between  them,  words  were  only  useless 
eounds.  He  opened  the  Prayer  Book  and  pointed 
to  the  Creed,  and  looked  into  his  friend's  face, 
but  met  with  no  response.  Neither  printed  nor 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  167 

spoken  words  seemed  to  convey  any  meaning  to 
his  mind.  For  an  instant  he  was  baffled ;  but, 
suddenly,  he  thought  that  his  new  acquaintance 
might,  possibly,  be  as  familiar  with  the  Lord's 
Prayer  as  he  was  with  the  Creed.  He  remem 
bered  that  the  Church  particularly  enjoins  the 
teaching  of  the  Creed,  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and 
the  Ten  Commandments,  and  he  thought  it  prob 
able  that  the  same  careful  person  who  had  in 
structed  him  in  one  might  have  taught  him  the 
others  also.  He  touched  him,  to  attract  his  at 
tention,  and  very  slowly  began  to  repeat  the 
Creed,  and  this  time  the  Indian  said  with  him 
every  word  of  it.  "When  they  had  finished,  Wil 
lie  paused  a  moment,  and  then  began  to  say 
the  Lord's  Prayer.  He  spoke  each  word  with 
great  distinctness,  and  narrowly  watched  the  ex 
pression  of  his  companion's  face.  At  first,  it  was 
plainly  surprise,  then,  by  degrees,  there  stole  over 
his  features  a  faint  expression  of  recognition,  as 
if  the  words  awoke  long-buried  memories,  and. 
oy  the  time  Willie  had  finished,  his  whole  coun 
tenance  lighted  up,  and  his  bright  eye  flashed, 
and  his  lips  moved,  and  then  burst  forth  an 
ejaculation,  whose  meaning  Willie  could  not,  of 


168  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

course,  understand,  although  it  assured  him  that 
his  new  friend  must  have  been  deeply  moved  to 
show  so  much  feeling.  He  made  several  signs, 
none  of  which  "Willie  could  comprehend,  but  at 
last  he  succeeded  in  making  him  understand  that 

o 

he  wished  him  to  repeat  it  again,  which  Willie 
accordingly  did ;  and  this  time,  as  when  he  fnvt 
said  the  Creed,  he  followed  him,  hesitatingly,  in 
every  petition.  Willie's  next  attempt  was  with 
the  Commandments,  but  this  effort  was  entirely 
unsuccessful.  There  was  nc  indication  whatever 
that  the  words  did  not  fall  then  upon  his  ear  for 
the  first  time,  and  "Willie,  therefore,  went  back 
again  to  the  Creed  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  re 
peating  them  again  and  again,  and  apparently 
affording  to  the  young  Indian  quite  as  much 
pleasure  as  he  himself  enjoyed.  It  was  difficult 
to  decide  which  was  the  most  delighted  and  sur 
prized.  Both  seemed  to  feel  that  there  was,  at 
least,  one  common  ground  whereon  they  might 
stand,  and  some  words  which  they  could  equally 
understand,  and  they  did  not  weary  of  repeat 
ing  them  together.  Willie  forgot  his  school  and 
every  thing  connected  with  it.  Forfeit-marks 
and  penalties  were  alike  disregarded,  and  the 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  169 

two  sat  upon  the  grass  for  an  hour  trying,  with 
persevering  efforts,  to  convey  their  meaning  by 
signs.  Occasionally,  in  his  impatience  and  eager 
ness,  "Willie  would  so  far  forget  himself  as  to 
give  vent  to  his  feelings  in  words,  but  this  the 
Indian  never  did.  He  was  never  betrayed  into 
this  but  once,  and  then,  by  the  words  of  our 
Saviour's  Prayer.  The  contrast  between  the  two, 
as  they  sat,  side  by  side,  was  very  striking.  Wil 
lie's  countenance  glowed  with  animation  and  in 
tense  excitement  as,  with  vehement  gesticulation, 
he  endeavored  to  make  himself  understood,  while 
his  companion  calmly  and  quietly  expressed  his 
thoughts  by  signs  much  more  intelligible  than 
Willie's  violent  gestures,  while  nothing  but  a 
bright  gleam  of  the  eye  betrayed  his  interest  in 
the  conversation. 

Willie's  curiosity  to  know  all  about  his  new 
friend  was  fast  becoming  intolerable.  The  con- 
sciousnesss  that  there  was  no  way  of  satisfying 
it,  only  increased  it,  and  the  few  ideas  which, 
by  signs,  they  were  able  to  interchange,  were  just 
enough  to  tantalize  him  beyond  endurance.  But 
there  was  no  alternative,  except  by  patient  con 
tinuance  and  unwearied  effort,  to  establish  be- 
15 


170  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

tween  them  a  method  of  communication  by  signs, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  familiarize  him  with  the 
sound  of  the  English  tongue.  Willie  hoped,  in 
this  way,  to  revive  his  recollections  of  what  he 
had  once  known,  for  he  could  not  divest  him 
self  of  the  belief  that  his  Indian  acquaintance 
had,  at  some  period  of  his  life,  been  familiar 
with  our  language.  Hence  his  impatience:  he 
seemed  to  be  fostering  the  belief  that,  after  a 
few  days,  it  would  all  come  back  to  him,  and 
he  would  suddenly  find  himself  as  familiar  with 
the  accents  of  the  English  tongue  as  if  it  were 
his  native  language ;  but,  as  day  after  day  passed, 
and  his  friend  made,  apparently,  no  advances, 
and  all  seemed  strange  sounds  except  the  words 
of  his  Belief  and  his  Prayer,  "Willie  was  not  only 
very  much  disappointed,  but  became  more  and 
more  bewildered,  and  began  to  grow  impatient. 
He  found  that  he  soon  learned  to  understand 
the  young  savage,  but  was  himself  singularly 
awkward  in  making  signs,  and  frequently,  after 
trying  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  express  an 
idea,  was  obliged  to  give  it  up  as  wholly  unsuc 
cessful. 

A  week  had  passed  by,- and  the  Indian  seemed 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  17l 

to  have  settled  himself  quietly  at  the  school. 
His  appearance  on  the  premises  no  longer  excited 
surprise,  and  the  brief  excitement,  caused  by  his 
arrival,  had  died  away.  lie  was  regularly  at 
the  chapel  services,  always  repeated  the  Creed 
and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  conformed  to  all 
the  postures  of  the  other  worshippers.  He  fre 
quently  walked  into  the  school-room  during  the 
hours  of  recitation,  and  never  caused  any  inter 
ruption,  but  would  sit  quietly  for  a  while,  watch 
ing  the  countenances  of  the  teacher  and  pupils, 
and  then,  as  quietly  leave  the  room.  Willie  fre 
quently  saw  his  little  Prayer  Book  in  his  hand, 
and  watched  him  attentively  as  he  turned  over 
the  pages,  hoping,  he  scarcely  knew  why,  that 
the  sight  of  some  printed  word  might  dart,  like 
a  sunbeam,  into  his  mind,  and  awaken  its  sleep 
ing  memories,  and  clear  away  the  mists  of  for- 
getfulness.  It  was  singular  to  see  him  with  that 
Prayer  Book,  and  seemed  very  strange  to  Wil 
lie,  that  he  never  noticed  any  book  except  that. 
It  was  very  evident  that  the  words  conveyed  no 
ideas  to  his  mind,  for  his  thoughts  always  seemed 
far  away  whenever  he  was  busily  engaged  turn 
ing  over  the  leaves ;  and  yet  the  book  must 


172  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

have  possessed  some  fascination  for  him,  be 
cause  it  was  frequently  in  his  hand,  as  often  as 
four  or  five  times  in  the  course  of  a  single  day. 
This  was  another  aggravation  to  Willie's  curios 
ity,  but  the  mystery  could  not  be  solved.  He 
tried,  in  every  conceivable  way,  to  ask  him  some 
thing  about  his  knowledge  of  the  Prayer  Book, 
and  his  preference  for  it,  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 
He  had  written  two  other  letters  to  his  father 
beside  the  first,  and  assured  him  that  from  ap 
pearances  the  Indian  intended  to  remain  there, 
and  that  he  might  begin  to  make  some  effort 
with  regard  to  raising  funds  for  his  education; 
and  told  him  that  though  baffled  thus  far,  and 
frequently  discouraged  when  he  thought  of  the 
difficulties  in  the  way,  still  he  did  not  intend  t\ 
relinquish  his  project.  He  had  just  dispatched 
his  last  letter  to  his  father;  it  was  the  tenth 
day  since  the  appearance  of  the  Indian  at  the 
chapel,  when,  at  the  noon  recess,  while  Willie 
was  playing  ball  with  several  boys,  he  was  sum 
moned  away  by  a  significant  gesture  from  his 
new  friend.  They  went  together,  Willie  follow 
ing  the  Indian  until  they  reached  the  outskirts 
of  a  large,  deep  grove,  whose  stillness  had  never 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  173 

been  disturbed  by  the  sound  of  the  woodman's 
axe.  The  Indian  paused,  looked  very  attentively 
at  Willie,  and  with  great  decision  of  manner, 
took  from  his  pocket  Willie's  Prayer  Book,  which 
he  showed  him,  pointed  far  away  into  the  depths 
of  the  forest,  and,  lifting  his  finger  towards  the 
sun,  then  at  the  meridian,  he  made  with  it  three 
revolutions,  stopping  each  time  as  he  pointed  to 
the  sun,  and  numbering  upon  his  fingers  one, 
twTo,  three ;  and  lastly,  turned  towards  the  chap 
el,  and  pointed  to  it.  Willie  at  once  understood 
what  he  meant.  The  three  revolutions  of  the 
sun  which  he  indicated  were  three  days;  he 
was  going  away  to  his  home,  and  would  return 
at  the  expiration  of  that  time.  Willie  tried  by 
every  sign  he  could  make  to  persuade  him  not 
to  go.  He  endeavored  to  make  him  understand 
what  he  intended  to  do  for  him  if  he  would 
only  remain ;  but  the  resolution  was  taken,  and, 
writh  the  unalterable  determination  of  his  race, 
he  proceeded  to  put  it  into  execution.  Willie 
was  bitterly  disappointed ;  he  never  expected  to 
see  him  again,  and  just  began  to  realize  how 
utterly  chimerical  had  been  all  his  plans.  His 
friend  shook  him  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  by 
15* 


174  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

gesture  and  manner,  expressed  as  plainly  ns  lie 
conld  have  done  by  words,  his  gratitude  for  all 
the  kindness  he  had  received.  Willie  bade  him 
a  kind  but  sorrowful  farewell,  and  then  motion 
ed  for  the  Pra}-er  Book,  which  the  Indian  held 
in  his  hand ;  but  a  very  decided  and  positive 
shake  of  the  head,  surprised  at  the  same  time 
that  it  annoyed  him.  It  was  an  old  book,  the 
same  which  his  father  had  used  when  of  his 
own  age,  and  during  his  whole  theological  course, 
and  was  the  first  Prayer  Book  which  was  ever 
put  into  his  hand.  lie  entreated  and  expostu 
lated,  but  in  vain ;  and  then,  determined  not  to 
give  it  up  without  a  struggle,  he  sprang  for 
ward  to  seize  it,  but  a  moment's  effort  proved 
that  in  activity  he  was  no  match  for  the  son 
of  the  forest,  who,  with  the  fleetness  of  the  an 
telope,  eluded  his  grasp,  and  was  in  a  few  min 
utes  lost  to  sight  in  the  depths  of  the  woods. 

Motionless  with  surprise,  Willie  stood  with 
straining  eyes,  hoping  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his 
companion  among  the  trees,  and  when  he  found 
that  this  was  vain,  he  still  waited  to  see  if  the 
whole  affair  were  not  a  jest,  and  if  in  a  few 
minutes  he  would  not  see  his  friend  rcturninir 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  175 

tc  him  with  the  book  which  he  so  much  val 
ued.  At  last,  with  mingled  feelings  of  disap 
pointment  and  indignation,  he  retraced  his  steps 
to  the  school,  indulging  in  no  very  pleasing  re 
flections  upon  the  ingratitude  of  the  world,  re 
flections  by  no  means  uncommon  to  the  young 
and  enthusiastic  when  disappointed  in  their  first 
effort  to  do  good;  before  they  have  learned 
cheerfully  to  work,  and  patiently  to  wait  for  re 
sults,  which  at  first  they  expect  immediately  to 
behold.  He  did  not  join  his  companions  in 
their  sports,  but  went  quietly  to  his  own  room, 
and  sat  down  to  vent  his  feelings  in  a  letter  to 
his  mother,  acknowledging  with  sorrow,  and  it 
may  be,  with  a  little  shame  too,  upon  what  slen 
der  foundations  he  had  reared  that  beautiful  su 
perstructure  of  Indian  civilization  and  religious 
culture,  which  had  so  lately  filled  his  heart  and 
brain ;  and  how  his  air-castles  of  heroic  self-de 
votion  to  the  cause  of  the  degraded  Indian,  had 
proved  but  "the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision." 
His  feelings  exhausted  themselves  in  a  few  lines 
of  complaint,  and,  throwing  his  unfinished  letter 
upon  the  table,  he  resolved  to  waste  no  more 
thoughts  or  regrets  upon  his  ungrateful  friend. 


176  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 


CHAPTER    X.      ' 

"  I  call  thcc  bleri ! — though  now  the  voice  be  fled, 

Which  to  thy  soul  brought  day-spring  with  its  tone; 
And  o'er  the  gentle  eyes  though  dust  be  spread, 
Eyes  that  ne'er  looked  on  thine  but  light  was  thrown 
Far  through  thy  breast: 

"  And  thou  from  all  the  daughters  of  the  earth 

Singled  and  marked,  hast  Tcnmcn  its  home  and  place ; 
And  the  high  memory  of  its  holy  worth. 
To  this  our  life,  a  glory  and  a  grace, 

For  thee  hath  given." 

UEMAKS. 

IT  had  only  required  a  few  days  fully  to  do 
mesticate  Bessie  in  Mr.  "Walton's  family.  She 
very  soon  endeared  herself  to  them  all,  espe 
cially  to  the  parents,  who,  as  they  watched  her, 
day  after  day,  and  saw  blended  with  the  sim 
plicity  of  the  child,  the  firmness  of  the  mature 
Christian,  first  regarded  her  as  a  wonder,  then 
loved  her  for  herself,  and  finally,  began  them 
selves  to  feel  for  the  mother  who  had  trained 
her,  somewhat  of  that  reference  which  was  so 
beautiful  a  trait  in  her  character. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  177 

Between  Bessie  and  Mary  Seymour  there  soon 
existed  a  warm  attachment.  The  loneliness  of 
their  condition  in  life  formed  at  once  a  strong 
bond  of  sympathy  between  them ;  but,  in  all 
their  intercourse,  Mary  was  every  day  more  and 
more  sadly  impressed  with  the  fact,  that  Bessie, 
though  now  an  orphan,  like  herself,  had,  never 
theless,  enjoyed  a  blessing  which  had  never 
been  conferred  upon  her — a  powerful  maternal 
influence,  to  which  she  had  been  an  utter  stranger 
—a  glowr  of  maternal  tenderness,  which  had  never 
shone  upon  her  sunless  childhood.  This  thought 
seemed  to -.oppress  her,  to  lie,  like  a  heavy  bur 
den,  upon  her  heart,  and,  at  last,  one  day  it 
vented  itself  in  the  strange  remark : 

"Bessie,  do  you  know  that  I  think  God  has 
blessed  you  more  abundantly  than  any  other 
human  being  I  have  ever  seen?  You  arose  im 
mediately  before  my  mind  this  morning  when 
[  read  that  verse  in  the  Psalms :  '  The  lines  are 
fallen  unto  me  in  pleasant  places,  yea,  I  have 
a  goodly  heritage.' 5: 

Bessie  looked  at  her  for  an  instant  in  silence, 
too  much  amazed  to  reply,  and  then  exclaimed 
almost  passionately : 


178  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"'A  goodly  heritage!'  A  lone  orphan  child, 
with  no  human  being  upon  whom  I  have  any 
claim!  no  father,  mother,  brother,  sister — " 

She  checked  herself,  and  then  added,  in  a 
voice  of  gentle  submission,  altogether  unlike  the 
excitement  into  which  she  had  been  momentarily 
betrayed  by  the  impetuosity  of  her  old  nature : 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  murmur.  I  know  that  it  is 
all  right,  and  I  ought  not  to  call  myself  an  or 
phan  when  I  have  a  Father  in  Heaven  and  a 
mother  on  earth,  in  his  Church ;  but,  oh  Mary ! 
when  you  used  the  words  'pleasant  places,'  and 
(a  goodly  heritage,'  with  reference  to  iny  situa 
tion,  it  sent  such  a  pang  through  my  heart,  that 
I  scarcely  knew  what  I  said.  I  take  it  back : 
I  am  not  an  orphan.  Mother  told  me  that  I 
never  could  be  as  long  as  that  verse  remained 
in  the  Bible,  'I  will  be  a  Father  to  the  father 
less.'" 

"  Bessie,"  replied  Mary,  "  it  is  in  the  possession 
of  this  very  mother  that  I  think  you  have  been 
blessed  so  far  above  every  child  I  ever  knew. 
In  her  you  surely  had  'a  goodly  heritage,'  with 
her  the  footsteps  of  your  childhood  surely  walked 
in  'pleasant  places.'" 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  179 

"Yes,  Mary;  but  do  you  not  know  that,  be 
cause  she  was  such  a  mother,  therefore,  in  losing 
her,  I  have  been  more  sorely  bereaved  than 
other  children  are  when  they  lose  a  parent  not 
so  faithful  and  affectionate  ?" 

"  Ah,  Bessie,"  replied  her  friend,  "  you  do  not, 
cannot,  know  the  utter  desolation,  the  heart- 
emptiness  of  looking  far  back  through  the  long 
vista  of  childhood,  into  the  twilight  of  infancy, 
and  not  having  one  ray  of  a  mother's  love  to 
kindle  the  dreary  recollection,  to  have  not  one 
look,  or  word,  or  tone  engraved  upon  the  mem 
ory  ;  to  have  to  learn  from  others  that  you  ever 
had  a  mother,  and  how  she  looked." 

She  paused,  and  compressing  her  lips,  added 
with  bitterness : 

"And  if  this  meagre  information  be  withheld, 
if  they  will  not  tell  you,  will  not  talk  about — " 

She  checked  herself,  and  then  said : 

"  How  different,  in  this  respect,  Bessie,  is  your 
condition  from  mine.  The  most  precious  mem 
ories  linger  around  your  early  home,  lightened 
and  gladdened,  as  it  was,  by  a  mother's  affec 
tion.  You  remember  how  she  looked,  can  recall 
the  expression  of  countenance  with  which  many 


180  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

of  her  instructions  were  accompanied,  can  re 
member  the  tones  of  her  voice,  the  very  words 
she  used.  Oh,  Bessie,  there  is  nothing  on  this 
earth  that  I  would  not  give  for  such  recollec 
tions  as  yours.  Never  did  a  poor,  desolate  child 
so  long  and  yearn  for  a  mother's  love  to  fill 
her  little  empty  heart,  never  was  a  childhood 
so  sunless,  so  destitute  of  every  circumstance 
that  would  entitle  it  to  the  name,  'the  spring 
time  of  being.' " 

Bessie  had  never  before  heard  Mary  Seymour 
allude  to  her  childhood,  and  having  learned  from 
Emma  how  resolutely  silent  she  was  with  regard 
to  it,  she  had  carefully  avoided  any  reference  to 
it ;  but  now,  encouraged  by  Mary's  voluntary  in 
troduction  of  the  subject,  she  ventured,  timidly, 
to  inquire : 

"And  why,  Mary,  was  your  childhood  so  un 
happy?  I  have  longed  to  know  something  of 
your  early  life,  and  felt  sure  that  I  could  enter 
into  all  your  feelings,  for  if  there  is  a  bond  of 
sympathy  between  any  two  beings  upon  earth, 
it  is  the  one  which  unites  two  orphan  girls." 

"Bessie,  you  may  feel  for  me,  but  you  can 
not,  as  you  say,  'enter  into  my  feelings.'  A 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  181 

cloud,  it  is  true,  rests  upon  your  early  life,  but 
its  gloom  is  lightened  and  its  edges  fring™ 
with  the  bright  radiance  of  Heaven's  own  sun 
light  ;  but  mine  is  all  dark,  sadly,  fearfully  dark. 
•Vhen  we  first  met,  I  had  learned  from  Emma 
that  you  were  an  orphan,  and  I  needed  but  to 
look  at  your  face  to  see  that  you  deeply  felt  the 
loss  you  had  sustained,  and,  like  yourself,  I  felt 
that  there  was  a  tie  between  us  which  could  not 
bind  you  to  any  of  the  members  of  this  happy 
family  circle.  But  I  have  learned  to  think  other 
wise,  and  every  allusion  to  your  home,  every 
lighting  up  of  your  countenance,  as  some  bright 
memory  flits  across  your  mind,  every  time  I 
have  heard  you  say  'Mother  told  me,'  T  have 
felt  a  pang  which  was  almost  intolerable,  and 
have  realized  that,  between  us  there  is  a  wall 
of  separation  which  must  be  insurmountable ; 
that  I  need  not  expect  from  you  that  sympathy 
which  I  at  first  fondly  hoped  to  receive,  not  be 
cause  you  are  unwilling,  but  because  you  are 
unable  to  give  it." 

"I  can  give  it,"  said  Bessie,  earnestly,  "and 
I  will.      Ever  since  Emma  told  me  about  you, 
long  before  we  met,  I  felt  interested  in  you,  be- 
16 


L82  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

«i?use  she  said  that  you  were  strangely  like  my 
other's  miniature.  This  I  thought  simply  im 
possible  ;  but  when  I  saw  you,  I  was  so  startled 
by  the  resemblance  that  my  heart  actually  stood 
still.  This,  of  course,  only  heightened  my  desirW 
to  know  something  of  your  early  history,  but 
our  brief  acquaintance  naturally  forbade  any  al 
lusion  to  a  subject  which  you  seemed  carefully 
to  avoid." 

"You  need  not  expect,  Bessie,  to  hear  any 
thing  exciting,  or  even  interesting.  What  causes 
me  so  much  pain  is  the  consciousness  that  my 
childhood  is  a  perfect  blank,  that  I  seem  to 
have  had  neither  father,  mother,  nor  home,  and 
that  those  with  whom  I  lived  were  so  obsti 
nately  determined  not  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  on 
these  points,  that  the  impression  is  left  upon  my 
mind,  that  there  is  some  dark  mystery  which 
overshadowed  my  birth. 

"My  first  recollections  carry  me  back  to  an 
elegantly  furnished  house  in  the  city  of  Kew 
York,  where  I  lived  with  an  aunt,  whose  name 
of  Seymour  I  have,  though  I  sometimes  doubt 
that  it  belongs  to  me.  She  had  no  children, 
was  devoted  to  fashion  and  the  world ;  was  an 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  183 

amiable  woman,  and,  therefore,  by  no  means 
unkind  to  me ;  but  my  very  first  consciousness 
was  that  yearning  for  affectionate  and  caressing 
care  which  the  child's  heart  imperatively  de 
mands,  and  witliout  which  it  will  n-ot  be  happy, 
even  if  it  should  meet  with  no  positive  unkind- 
ness. 

Long  before  I  knew  why  it  was,  I  felt  that 
I  was  differently  situated  from  the  little  chil 
dren  with  whom  I  played,  and  I  never  shall 
forget  going  home  from  school  one  day  with  a 
little  girl,  whose  mother  immediately  called  hei 
up  to  her,  untied  her  bonnet,  smoothed  the  hair 
from  her  face  and  kissed  her.  I  watched  her 
in  silence,  and  presently  the  tears  came.  I  tried 
hard  to  keep  them  back,  for  I  was  a  stranger 
there;  but  they  would  come,  and  sitting  down 
on  the  floor,  I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands  and 
cried  as  if  my  heart  would  break.  The  kind- 
hearted  woman  looked  at  me,  first  with  surprise, 
and  then  with  pity,  and,  lifting  me  from  the 
floor  seated  me  upon  her  lap,  and  inquired  what 
was  the  matter,  if  I  was  sick.  As  soon  as  I 
could  speak  I  sobbed  out:  'I  have  just  found 
out  the  reason  why  I  am  not  like  all  the  other 


L84  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

little   girls.     I   have   no   mother.     Nobody   ever 
kisses  me.' 

"The  good  woman  was  touched  to  her  heart. 
I  saw  the  tears  come  into  her  eyes,  and  I  loved 
her  for  it,  and  she  said  with  a  cheerfulness  which 
she  did  not  feel:  'Never  mind,  Mary,  I  will  love 
you  and  kiss  you,  too ;'  and  she  wiped  the  tears 
from  my  face  and  kissed  me;  and  then  there 
stole  into  my  heart  some  dreamy  memory  that 
this  was  not  altogether  new  to  me,  that  long, 
long  ago,  somebody  had  treated  me  thus;  but 
when  and  where,  and  who  it  was,  I  could  not 
tell.  She  told  me  that  I  must  often  come  home 
with  her  little  Ellen,  and  promised  that  she 
would  always  untie  my  bonnet,  and  smooth  back 
my  hair  just  as  she  did  for  her  own  child;  and 
she  was  true  to  her  word.  The  pleasantest  re 
collections  of  my  childhood  are  associated  with 
her  family;  and  to  her  I  am  indebted  for  all 
the  religious  instruction  I  ever  had.  But  for 
all  this  she  was  not,  she  could  not  be  a  mother 
to  me,  and  although  I  believe  she  tried,  when 
ever  we  were  together,  to  make  as  little  di Her 
on  ce  as  possible  in  the  treatment  of  myself  and 
her  little  Ellen,  yet  a  child's  unerring  instinct 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  185 

told  me  that  there  was  a  place  deep,  deep  down 
in  the  mother's  heart,  to  which  the  little  stran 
ger  could  not  penetrate. 

"  My  aunt  spared  no  expense  either  in  my 
dress  or  education,  but  this  was  rather  because 
I  was  an  appendage  to  herself,  than  because 
she  was  especially  interested  in  my  personal  ap 
pearance  or  mental  culture.  I  was  not  restrain 
ed  in  my  childish  amusements,  i'udeed  I  was 
allowed  to  do  pretty  much  as  I  pleased,  and  it 
was  this  very  thing  that  weighed  like  an  incu 
bus  on  my  life,  that  nobody  was  sufficiently  in 
terested  in  me  to  care  what  I  did,  or  how  I 
spent  my  time. 

"Thus  the  years  rolled  on.  Doubtless,  the 
world  thought  my  lot  a  very  enviable  one,  and 
commented,  with  lavish  praises,  upon  the  rich 
uncle  and  aunt  who  had  adopted  the  poor  or 
phan,  and  educated  her  so  thoroughly  and  dress 
ed  her  so  elegantly;  but  the  world  knew  not  of 
the  wants  and  cravings  of  the  little  neglected 
heart,  wjiich  was  starved  and  dwarfed  for  want 
of  its  natural  aliment,  and  which  would  gladly 
have  exchanged  handsome  apparel  and  interest 
ing  books  foi  loving  words  and  fond  embraces 
16* 


186  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"I  have  since  thought  that  perhaps  the  rea 
son  why  I  was  allowed  to  be  so  little  with  my 
aunt,  was,  because  I  was  always  tormenting  her 
with  questions  which  sbe  evidently  did  not  wish 
to  answer.  "When  I  grew  old  enough  to  reflect, 
I  was  at  first  surprised,  and  then  indignant,  be 
cause  she  always  either  evaded  the  questions 
entirely,  or  answered  them  in  such  a  way  as  to 
give  me  no  satisfaction  whatever.  Long  before 
I  knew  that  I  had  a  right  to  demand  from  her 
all  the  information  she  possessed  with  regard  to 
my  birth  and  home-associations,  I  never  entered 
her  presence  without  immediately  asking  some 
question,  which  was  sure  to  result  in  my  being 
told  in  a  few  minutes :  '  There  now,  Mary,  you 
must  run  out  to  play,  my  dear;'  and,  I  confess, 
that  these  repeated  questionings,  on  my  part, 
came  at  last  to  be,  not  the  result  of  a  hope  of 
obtaining  the  desired  information,  but  they  were 
the  outgushings  of  my  childish  revenge,  be 
cause  -she  would  not  tell  me  what  I  thought 
he  had  no  right  to  withhold,  and  I  very  quick 
ly  discovered  that  to  repeat  these  questions,  with 
provoking  pertinacity,  was  the  surest  way  to  an 
noy  her. 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  187 

"  One  day,  when  I  was  about  fourteen  years 
of  age,  I  asked  one  of  the  usual  questions,  for 
which  my  aunt  never  openly  reproved  me,  be 
cause  her  own  sense  told  her  how  natural  my 
curiosity  was,  but  she  always  evidenced  her  an 
noyance  in  her  tone  and  manner.  This  time, 
however,  something  had  disturbed  her  equanim 
ity  before;  so  she  was  thrown  entirely  off  her 
guard,  and  answered  very  petulantly: 

" '  The  same  old  question,  repeated  a  thousand 
times  a  week !  It  is  wonderful  that  your  own 
sense  has  not  told  you  long  since,  that  if  I  had 
any  thing  good  or  pleasant  to  tell  you  of  your 
parents,  I  would,  years  ago,  have  satisfied  your 
curiosity.' 

"This  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  openly 
avowed  her  unwillingness  to  speak  of  them ;  in 
deed,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  the  very 
first  time  she  had  acknowledged  that  I  ever  had 
any  parents,  for  the  ingenuity  which  she  displayed 
in  seeming  to  answer  my  questions,  without  at 
all  enlightening  my  mind,  was  perfectly  mar 
vellous. 

"  I  looked  up  into  her  face  in  mute  surprise. 
An  impertinent  reply  rushed  to  my  lips,  but 


188  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

found  no  utterance,  because  my  aunt  had  never 
been  absolutely  unkind  to  me,  and  these  were 
the  harshest  words  she  had  ever  spoken.  I  did 
not  answer  immediately,  but  when  I  did,  my 
voice  trembled  with  the  passion  which  I  was 
striving  to  repress. 

" '  So  then,  aunt,  I  did  once  have  a  father 
and  mother.  You  never  told  me  this  before.' 

"I  waited  for  an  answer  to  this,  but  finding 
that  I  was  not  to  receive  one,  I  proceeded : 

" '  Please  to  tell  me  all  that  you  know  of  my 
mother.' 

" '  I  know  nothing  good  about  her,'  was  the 
short  reply. 

"'Are  you  my  mother's — '  sister  I  was  going 
to  say,  but  the  word  died  on  my  lips,  and  I  ex 
claimed  : 

"'No,  .never!  for  if  you  were,  you  never 
could  speak  of  her,  no  matter  how  she  had 
erred,  as  you  have  spoken  of  my  mother.' 

"I  then  looked  into  my  aunt's  face,  firmly, 
but  respectfully,  and  said : 

" '  The  time  has  come,  aunt,  when  I  may  not 
any  longer  be  put  off  with  these  evasions.  What 
you  have  said  you  must  explain;  for,  although 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  189 

you  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  sincerely 
thank  you  for  it,  yet  I  cannot  hear  these  insin 
uations  against  my  mother  without  knowing  up 
on  what  they  are  founded.' 

" '  You  are  not  grateful,  Mary,'  replied  my 
aunt.  'I  have  been  a  mother  to  you,  and  have 
withheld  the  information  which,  for  years,  you 
have  so  pertinaciously  demanded,  simply  out  of 
regard  to  your  feelings.  Now  you  have  asked 
the  question  in  such  a  way  that  I  can  no  longer 
evade  it,  and,  because  I  tell  you  the  truth  about 
one  who  has  really  been  a  parent  to  you  only 
in  name,  you  are  ready  to  forget  all  the  kind 
ness  I  have  shown  you,  the  care  I  have  taken 
of  you,  and  the  money  I  have  expended  on  you. 
I  did  hope  that,  in  return  for  all  this,  I  might, 
at  least,  have  had  a  grateful,  as  well  as  an  ac 
complished,  niece,  to  gladden  my  heart  when  I 
am  old.' 

"This  was  rather  more  than  I  could  bear,  for 
I  really  did  love  my  aunt  and  appreciate  all 
that  she  had  done  for  me,  although  my  instinct 
had  led  me  to  form  a  very  different  estimate 
of  a  mother's  care  from  that  which  she  had 
bestowed  on  me.  So  I  went  up  to  her,  and 


190  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

laying  my  hand  gently  upon  her  shoulder,  which 
was  the  nearest  approach  I  had  ever  made  to 
wards  caressing  her,  I  said  : 

"'Indeed,  my  dear  aunt,  it  grieves  me  very 
much  to  hear  you  talk  so.  I  am  not  ungrate 
ful.  I  think  that  I  really  do  appreciate  your 
kindness,  arid  realize  that  you  and  uncle  have 
done  for  me  what  very  few  relatives  would  have 
done  for  a  friendless  orphan  child.  But,  aunt, 
you  will  yourself  acknowledge  that  this  long 
ing  desire  to  know  something  of  my  home  and 
parents  is  but  natural,  and  you  will  also  allow 
that  it  must  be  painful  to  a  child  to  hear  her 
mother  disparaged,  even  though  that  mother 
should  have  died  long  before  she  ever  knew 
her.' 

"  My  aunt  seemed  softened,  and  said,  mus 
ingly:  'Well,  perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  to 
tell  you  all  I  know,  but  even  this  will  not  be 
a  great  deal,  for  I  have  not  heard  a  word  from 
her  in  ten  years.' 

" '  Is  my  mother  living  ?'  inquired  I  in  amaze 
ment. 

" '  I  tell  you,  Mary,  that  I  know  nothing  about 
her  now.' 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  191 

" '  Well,'  exclaimed  I,  '  please,  please,  aunt, 
ell  me  all  you  once  knew.' 

"  And  then  she  told  me  of  her  elegant  young 
brother,  the  pride  of  his  family,  going  some 
where  out  into  the  southern  wilds,  and  marry 
ing  a  country  rustic  for  her  beauty,  whom,  after 
marriage,  he  was  ashamed  to  bring  home  to  his 
family.  It  seems,  too,  that  there  was  some  diffi 
culty  in  my  mother's  family  with  regard  to  her 
marriage,  for  my  aunt»said,  sneeringly,  that  'her 
father  thought  her  too  pure  or  too  holy  for  her 
brother,  and,  as  there  were  so  many  objections 
to  it,  he  took  her  away  and  she  never  saw  them 
again.' 

" '  And,  aunt,  did  I  have  any  brothers  or  sis 
ters?  How  came  I  here  if -my  mother  was  still 
living  ?  Is  my  father  still  alive  ?  Please,  tell 
me  all.' 

" '  Your  father  brought  you  here,'  said  my 
aunt,  '  a  little  child  between  three  and  four  years 
old,  because  he  wanted  you  to  make  a  refined 
and  accomplished  woman,  and,  as  your  mother 
was  not  capable  of  thus  educating  you,  and,  as 
the  country  where  he  lived  was  in  a  wild,  un 
settled  state,  with  no  advantages  of  schools,  so- 


192  BESSIE    MELVILLE, 

ciety,  or  even  civilization,  he  brought  you  to 
me,  for  he  was  sure  that  I  would  rear  you  in 
a  circle  to  which,  by  right  of  your  father's  birth, 
you  belonged.  I  believe  that  there  was  some 
violent  opposition  on  your  mother's  part  to  your 
being  taken  a-way;  but,  like  a  reasonable  man, 
who  looked  only  to  his  child's  best  interests, 
he,  of  course,  disregarded  it,  and  brought  you 
to  me  in  spite  of  opposition.  Since  you  came 
here  I  have  never  received  one  line  from  yoair 
mother,  and  this  is  why  I  say  that  she  is  a 
mother  only  in  name.  She  did  not  even  write 
to  tell  us  of  your  father's  death:  we  heard  of 
it  accidentally  a  year  afterwards,  through  a  stran 
ger.  You  once  had  brothers  and  sisters,  but  I 
do  not  know  wha-t  has  ever  become  of  them. 
I  do  not  know  whether  or  not  your  mother  is 
still  living,  though  I  think  it  most  probable  that 
she  died  long  since,  as  her  Ivealth  was  extremely 
delicate  when  your  father  brought  you  to  me. 
Now,  Mary,  I  have  told  you  all  I  know.  No 
questions  hereafter  can  give  you  any  more  sat 
isfactory  information,  and,  as  this  cannot  but  bo 
a  painful  subject  to  both  of  us,  I  beg  that  you 
will  never  again  allude  to  it.' 


BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

"Such,  Bessie,"  continued  Mary,  "is  the.  un 
satisfactory  knowledge  that  I  possess  of  my  pa 
rents  ;  of  my  home  I  know  nothing.  You  see 
from  my  aunt's  description  of  my  mother  that, 
she  had  no  respect  for  her,  and  thought  it  a 
great  blessing  that  I  should  have  exchanged 
maternal  imhecility  and  neglect  for  all  the  care 
and  advantages  which  she  had  given  me;  but, 
although  I  received  all  my  impressions  concern 
ing  my  mother  through  the  medium  of  her  pre 
judices,  yet  I  have  never  been  able  to  look 
upon  her  character  in  the  light  in  which  my 
aunt  would  have  me  view  it;  and  I  feel  that 
there  is,  deep  m  my  heart,  a  chord  which  will 
yield  no  answering  response  to  any  name  but 
mother;  that  I  love  her  yet,  and  reverence  her, 
too,  in  spite  of  what  I  have  heard,  and  will  not, 
cannot,  believe  that  she  was  not  all  that  a  mo 
ther  ought  to  be.  You  will  now  understand 
what  I  mean,  Bessie,  when  I  say  that  you  are 
happy ;  happy  in  having  known  for  yourself 
the  guardian  of  your  childhood  ;  happy  in  hav 
ing  memories  which  no  after  life  can  efface ; 
happy  in  your  own  knowledge ;  while  I,  grop- 
iup;  in  darkness,  find  myself  constantly  grasping 
17 


19-1  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

imaginary  characteristics,  of  whose  existence  no 
human  being  can  assure  me." 

"Yes,  Maiy,"  replied  Bessie,  "I  see  it  all 
now,  and  just  begin  to  realize  that  what  has 
heretofore  seemed  to  add  a  poignancy  to  my 
grief,  is  really  my  greatest  blessing;  and,  al 
though  my  knowledge  of  my  mother  only  as 
sures  me  how  great  is  my  loss,  yet  I  would  not, 
for  worlds,  exchange  my  certainty  with  regard 
to  her  character,  for  your  state  of  doubt  and 
want  of  knowledge.  You  said,  Mary,  that  your 
aunt  was,  essentially,  a  worldly  woman ;  who 
taught  you  about  the  Bible,  and  the  Prayer 
Book,  and  the  Church?  who  told  you  in  your 
childhood  about  the  Saviour  who  specially  loves 
little  children,  and  thinks  they  are  best  fitted, 
of  all  earthly  beings,  for  membership  in  his 
Church?  "Who  had  you  baptized,  Mary?" 

"  Ah,  Bessie  !  that  is  the  saddest  thought  of 
all.  I  have  no  reason  whatever  to  believe  that 
I  was  baptized  at  all,  until,  at  seventeen  years  of 
age,  I  sought  for  myself  shelter  in  that  fold  in 
which  a  mother's  instincts  lead  her  to  place  her 
little  infant  so  soon  as  it  is  born.  In  looking 
over  my  childhood,  I  feel  that  it  was  all  nn- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  195 

sheltered,  and  whenever  I  see  a  little  baby  bap 
tized,  and  hear  those  beautiful,  those  wonderful 
promises  of  protection  and  loving  guidance,  I 
shudder  at  the  thought  that  for  me,  all  through 
infancy,  childhood,  and  early  youth,  there  was 
not  one  such  promise;  that  no  kind  friend  had 
sought  for  me  a  pledge  of  a  Saviour's  guard 
ian  mercy  and  watchful  care,  during  that  pe 
riod  of  life,  which  is,  of  all  others,  most  ex 
posed  to  snares  and  temptations.  I  have  already 
told  you  that  to  the  lady  whose  sympathies  were 
aroused  by  my  childish  grief,  I  am  indebted  for 
all  the  religious  instruction  I  received.  She 
very  soon  won  my  confidence  and  affection,  and 
asked  me  to  join  her  class  in  the  Sunday-school. 
This  I  readily  agreed  to  do,  pleased  with  the 
novelty,  and  anxious  to  go  with  the  little  Ellen, 
who  was  my  favorite  playmate ;  and  every  Sun 
day  during  the  four  following  years  of  her  brief 
life,  she  called  for  me  to  accompany  her.  The 
first  real  grief  I  ever  experienced,  was  the  Sun 
day  morning  when  I  had  to  go  without  my  little 
friend,  and  •  stood  sobbing  by  the  open  grave 
which  was  ready  to  receive  her.  After  Ellen's 
death  her  mother  seemed  tc  cling  to  me,  and 


196  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

always  treated  me  very  affectionately,  and  in 
structed  me  on  Sunday  with  a  great  deal  of  care, 
and  slie  gave  me  a  Grayer  Book  which  I  still 
have,  and  which  I  value  very  much.  She  was 
a  faithful  teacher  in  the  Sunday-school,  and 
taught  our  class  from  the  age  of  six  until  we 
were  ourselves  ready  to  become  teachers.  She 
now  sleeps  quietly  beside  her  little  Ellen,  but 
she  was  permitted  to  live  long  enough  to  see 
the  fruits  of  her  labors.  The  very  last  time  she 
joined  in  the  worship  of  the  earthly  Church  she 
saw  her  whole  class  of  six  girls  whom  she  had 
instructed  from  childhood  kneeling  side  by  side 
at  the  chancel  to  receive  the  rite  of  Confirma 
tion.  I  never  can  cease  to  be  grateful  for  her 
kind  and  patient  instruction,  and  cannot  help 
feeling  ttiat  I  am  more  indebted  to  her  for  her 
religious  teachings,  than  I  am  to  my  aunt  for  all 
the  worldly  advantages  which  she  so  lavishly  be 
stowed  upon  me.  It  is  only  since  I  have  known 
you,  and  heard  you  talk,  that  I  have  realized 
that,  after  all,  it  was  not  a  mother's  teaching. 
As  she  only  taught  me  one  hour  in  the  week, 
she  had  not  the  time  to  point  out,  step  by  step, 
the  Scriptural  authority  for  the  doctrines  and 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  197 

usages  of  the  Church.  She  did  not  teach  me  to 
regard  the  Church  as  a  mother ;  oh !  if  she  had, 
how  would  the  little  orphan's  heart  have  grasp 
ed  the  idea,  and  how  I  would  have  learned  to 
love  the  Church  and  obey  her  directions.  The 
greater  part  of  what  I  know  of  the  Church, 
and  the  Bible  authority  for  what  she  commands 
and  teaches,  I  have  learned  since  I  have  been 
grown;  and,  groping  my  way  along  an  unknown 
path  unassisted  and  alone,  I  find  that  I  have 
overlooked  many  things  which  a  mother's  care 
pointed  out  to  you,  and  young  as  you  are,  you 
have  called  my  attention  to  many  beauties  in 
the  Church  system  which  I  had  never  perceived 
before." 

"  You  have  never,  Mary,  related  to  your  friends 
here  what  you  have  now  told  me,  have  you?" 

"No,  Bessie,  I  have  never  spoken  so  unre 
servedly  to  any  one  before,  and  would  not  thus 
freely  have  spoken  to  you,  were  it  not  that  I 
have  felt,  from  the  first,  irresistibly  drawn  to 
wards  you.  It  cannot  be  merely  a  tie  of  sym 
pathy  because  we  are  both  motherless,  for  I 
have  been  several  times  in  my  life  intimately 

associated  with  girls  in  the  same  condition,  but 
17* 


198  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

have  never  felt  any  desire  to  open  my  heart  to 
them.  It  must  be  the  resemjjlance  between  my 
self  and  your  mother,  that  has  awakened  in  my 
heart  this  feeling  towards  you.  It  is  very  mys 
terious,  this  likeness,  isn't  it,  Bessie?" 

"Yes,  Mary,  to  me  it  is  unaccountable.  You 
are  much  more  like  my  mother  in  personal  ap 
pearance  than  I  am." 

"I  wish,  Bessie,  that  the  resemblance  did  not 
stop  here.  I  would  rather  be  like  her  in  char 
acter  than  any  human  being  I  ever  heard  of." 

"Yes,  Mary;  her  character  was  a  lovely  ex 
emplification  of  the  power  of  religion.  Her  Sav 
iour's  will  was  the  only  law  she  recognized,  his 
glory  the  paramount  desire  of  her  heart." 

"Was  she  always,  and  in  all  circumstances, 
perfectly  submissive  to  the  will  of  God?"  asked 
Mary. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Bessie ;  "  I  never  saw  her  oth 
erwise.  I  have  frequently  heard  her  say,  that 
the  highest  attainment  which  a  Christian  can 
ever  reach  in  this  world,  is  to  be  able  to  say, 
from  the  sincere  depths  of  his  heart:  'Father, 
thy  will  be  done.'  This  attainment  she  readied 
long  years  before  she  went  to  heaven,  and  must 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  199 

have  been  left  here,  not  to  be  herself  refined 
and  purified  for  that  blessed  world,  but  to  train 
and  guide  a  wayward  and  impetuous  child." 

"Was  she  never  disturbed  and  disquieted  by 
anxieties  and  troubles,  Bessie?" 

"  Yes,  Mary ;  she  was  sometimes  distressed, 
but  never  rebellious.  She  was  a  human  being, 
and  a  mother,  and  therefore  could  not  but  be 
grieved  to  see  my  little  sister  suffer  and  die ; 
but  she  was  always  perfectly  submissive.  She 
has  often  told  me,  that  as  it  was  her  Father's 
will  to  take  Jennie,  she  would  not  have  detained 
her  if  she  could.  She  rested  in  the  assurance 
of  God's  love  with  the  implicit  trust  of  a  child. 
She  always  spoke  of  the  three  persons  of  the 
Holy  Trinity,  as  Father,  Saviour,  Comforter.  It 
was  her  wish  that  her  Father's  will  should  be 
done  in  every  thing;  therefore  she  could  never 
murmur.  By  a  powerful  and  undying  associa 
tion,  I  have  her  countenance  before  me  in  life 
like  reality,  whenever  I  hear  the  words  of  the 
closing  benediction :  '  The  peace  of  God  which 
passeth  all  understanding.'  That  peace  was  writ 
ten  as  with  a  sunbeam  upon  her  face,  smiling 
out  even  in  the  midst  of  tears — the  saddest  tears 


200  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

I  ever  saw  her  shed — over  my  little  dead  sister. 
Bereavement,  suffering,  death  itself,  could  not 
efface  it,  or  quench  its  light;  and  when  I  look 
ed  upon  her  face  for  the  last  time,  and  pressed 
a  farewell  kiss  upon  her  cold  brow,  the  thought 
struggled  into  audible  utterance,  and  I  could 
not  help  saying  aloud: — 
"'The  peace  of  God!'" 


SriSSIK    MELVILLE.  201 


CHAPTER    XI. 

"Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty! 
All  thy  works  shall  praise  thy  name,  in  earth  and  sky  and  sea. 
Holy,  holy,  holy,  merciful  and  mighty! 
God  in  three  persons,  Blessed  Trinity !" 

HEBKR. 

THE  Christmas  holidays  were  over,  and  once 
more  Bessie  and  Emma  were  at  school,  engaged 
in  the  regular  routine  of  daily  duty,  and  scarce 
ly  able  to  realize  that  their  brief  fortnight  of 
pleasure  had  not  been  a  dream.  To  their  young 
minds  it  seemed  that  all  that  was  left  to  them 
of  that  happy  time  was  its  pleasant  memory ; 
they  did  not  know  that  impressions  had  been 
made  and  friendships  formed  which  would  be 
life-long  in  duration. 

The  whole  "Walton  family  parted  with  Bessie 
with  sincere  regret.  The  parents  not  professing 
themselves  to  be  guided  by  Christian  principles, 
could  nq£  but  wonder  at  and  admire  the  devel 
opment  of  them  in  one  so  young,  and  could 


202  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

not  but  rejoice  at  the  influence  which  such  a 
companion  would  exert  over  their  daughter. 
Charles  and  Lucy  were  loud  in  their  protesta- 
ions  of  regret  at  Bessie's  departure,  and  ex 
pressed  their  delighted  surprise  that  she  was  al 
ways  ready  to  join  in  their  amusements,  and 
had  none  of  that  moroseness  which  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  regard  as  inseparable  from 
religion.  Mary  Seymour  said  less,  but  probably 
felt  more  severely  than  any  of  the  rest,  the  lone 
liness  of  the  house  after  the  girls  were  gone. 
Herself  a  devoted  Christian,  she  could  not  but 
love  and  cling  to  the  Christian  child  who  was 
the  only  person  she  had  ever  seen  in  that 
house  who  could  sympathize  with  her,  and  to 
whom  she  could  talk  upon  the  subject  nearest 
her  heart.  Herself  an  orphan  from  early  child 
hood,  having  formed  the  most  exalted  concep 
tions  of  maternal  affection  and  influence,  though 
the  pleasure  was  embittered  by  a  more  realizing 
sense  of  her  own  destitution,  still  it  was  a  pleas 
ure  to  her,  to  find  that  there  had  once  been 
just  such  a  mother  as  her  fancy  had  pictured, 
and  that  her  child  had  loved  her  quite^is  much 
as  she  imagined  she  herself  would  have  loved 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  203 

such  a  mother.  As  some  mitigation  to  the  pain 
of  separation,  she  had  exacted  a  promise  from 
Bessie  to  correspond  with  her  regularly.  Of 
Emma's  parents,  Bessie  had  obtained  a  promise 
that  their  daughter  should  spend  her  next  sum 
mer  vacation  with  her  at  Mr.  Kennedy's,  and 
their  plans  for  that  future  time,  and  their  an 
ticipations  of  pleasure,  formed  a  favorite  topic 
of  conversation  between  the  girls  during  the 
hours  of  relaxation  from  school  duty. 

When  they  were  again  fairly  settled  down  to 
their  books,  they  resumed  their  evening  study 
of  the  Prayer  Book.  Emma  was  herself  sur 
prised  at  the  rapidity  of  her  progress,  and  at 
the  firm  hold  taken  by  this  book  upon  her 
affections.  Being  now  at  that  age  when  the 
young  mind  first  begins  to  awake  to  the  beau 
ties  of  style  and  language,  she  could  not  fail  to 
appreciate  in  some  degree,  at  least,  the  sublimity 
of  that  Liturgy  which  has  challenged  the  admi 
ration  of  some  of  the  noblest  minds  the  world 
ever  saw ;  and  sometimes  she  paused  long  over 
certain  passages,  and,  as  in  the  Collect  for  Trin 
ity  Sunday,  wondered  whether  it  were  indeed 
possible  that  uninspired  human  intellect  could 


204:  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

grasp   such  majesty  of  thought,  and   express   it 
in  such  force  and  brevity  of  language. 

Thus  gently  and  quietly  the  weeks  and  months 
rolled  on.  Some  might  have  deemed  their  life 
lonely  and  monotonous,  but  the  girls  did  not 
find  it  so.  Their  retirement  in  the  country  ren 
dered  unnecessary  many  of  those  restrictions  so 
intolerable  to  the  young  in  city  boarding- 
schools.  Their  teachers  were  kind  and  lenient, 
striving  to  govern  by  that  fear  and  love  of  God, 
and  desire  to  please  Him,  which  was  always 
held  up  as  the  only  incentive  to  action  that 
was  worth  having.  The  constant  attendance 
upon  Church  Services,  which  was  to  some, 
when  they  first  came  to  the  school,  a  disagree 
able  necessity,  soon  became  a  matter  of  course, 
and  afterwards  of  preference,  so  that  the  tide 
of  affairs  in  that  little  school  flowed  on  with  a 
smooth,  unruffled  current.  They  were  allowed 
plenty  of  time  for  exercising  in  the  open  air, 
and  spent  an  hour  every  evening  in  the  parlor, 
where  teachers  and  pupils  met  in  free,  unreserv 
ed  intercourse,  and  amused  themselves  in  any 
way  they  chose,  with  no  other  restrictions  than 
those  which  belong  to  refined  and  polite  life. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  205 

Bessie  saw,  with  feelings  of  unmingled  pleas 
ure,  the  interest  that  her  young  friend  was  be 
ginning  to  take  in  the  Church.  Assured  by 
Emma  herself,  at  the  commencement  of  theii 
study  of  the  Prayer  Book,  of  her  desire  to  be 
a  Christian,  she  had  never  seen  any  thing  in 
her  conduct  to  awaken  a  doubt  of  her  sincerity 
and  she  longed  to  see  her  placed  within  the 
fold  of  the  Church  by  holy  baptism.  She  fre 
quently  repeated  her  former  advice,  to  seek 
counsel  and  instruction  from  Mr.  Lester,  but 
always  received  the  reply : — 

"!N"ot  yet,  Bessie.  You  must  teach  me  all 
you  know  first.  When  I  have  gone  all  through 
the  Prayer  Book  with  you,  if  I  find  that  I  can 
believe  all  these  teachings  and  submit  to  all 
these  directions;  if,  in  short,  I  find  that  I  can 
take  this  Church  for  my  mother,  to  guide  and 
instruct  me,  then  I  will  go  to  Mr.  Lester,  and 
open  my  whole  heart  to  him,  and  tell  him  all 
I  want.  But  I  cannot  go  yet.  I  might,  after 
all,  find  something  that  I  could  not  possibly  be 
lieve  or  do,  so  let  us  wait  patiently." 

"!Nb,  Emma;   I  cannot  wait  patiently.     I  do 

so  long  to  see  you   confess  Christ  before  men, 
18 


206  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

so  long  to  see  you  do  all  you  can  do  to  show 
that  you  realize  the  value  of  the  redemption 
purchased  for  you,  and  are  not  ungrateful  for 
it." 

"  Bessie,"  replied  Emma  seriously,  "  you  know 
that  I  am  not  ungrateful  for  the  salvation  of 
fered  me.  You  know  that  I  do  sincerely  desire 
to  be  a  Christian,  and  intend,  by  God's  help, 
to  be  one ;  but  this  thing  of  choosing  a  Church 
is  too  serious  and  solemn  a  decision,  too  im 
portant  in  its  results,  to  be  made  hastily  and 
lightly.  God  alone  knows,  my  dear  Bessie,  how 
thankful  I  would  be  to  have  my  mind  at  rest 
on  this  point,  and  how  I  envy  you  your  calm, 
sweet  assurance  that  you  are  in  the  right  fold." 

"Never,  never,  while  I  live,"  said  Bessie  sol 
emnly,  "can  I  learn  all  that  my  mother  has  done 
for  me.  Every  day  develops  some  new  bless 
ing  unperceived  before.  Oh!  how  can  I  be 
thankful  enough  that  she  did  not  leave  me  thus 
to  decide  for  myself,  to  grow  up  uninstrticted 
in  religious  truth,  and  then,  when  my  conscience 
is  awakened,  and  I  see  myself  a  sinner,  and 
long  to  confess  my  Saviour  in  the  only  w;tv 
He  has  appointed,  through  the  Sacraments  of 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  207 

his  Church,  to  stand  bewildered  among  conflict 
ing  opinions,  and  fearful  lest  after  all  I  might 
find  myself  in  the  wrong  fold.  I  am  thankful 
that  it  was  not  left  to  me  to  choose  my  Church, 
any  more  than  it  was  to  choose  my  mother  j 
but  that  she  who  \vas  so  thoroughly  acquaint 
ed  with  every  step  of  the  path,  should  first  have 
placed  my  feet  in  it,  and  then  have  taken  pains 
to  show  me  how  closely  it  followed  the  teach 
ings  of  God's  holy  word.  I  cannot,  Emma,  bid 
you  make  haste  to  decide,  for  there  is  force  and 
truth  in  what  you  say,  that  it  is  too  important 
and  solemn  a  decision  to  make  hastily.  I  can 
only  regret  that  you  are  so  bewildered,  and  pray 
God  to  guide  and  direct  you  in  your  difficulty. 
But  I  do  most  sincerely  wish  that  your  decision 
could  be  made.  I  love  you  dearly,  Emma,  and 
cannot  bear  to  think  of  you  as  unbaptized,  un 
protected;  with  all  a  Saviour's  promises  freely 
offered,  while  you  stand  alone  and  unbefriend- 
ed,  with  no  right  to  claim  one  of  them,  because 
you  have  not  fulfilled  the  conditions.  Think 
of  it>  my  dear  friend ;  and,  though  I  would  not 
have  you  hasty,  yet  I  do  entreat  you  to  use 
faithfully  all  the  means  of  instruction  in  your 


203  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

power.  Lent  is  now  approaching;  immediately 
after  it  comes  Easter,  the  grand  high-festival  of 
the  Church's  year;  and  this  is  the  day  appoint 
ed  for  the  bishop's  visitation,  and  for  Confirma 
tion.  You  heard  Mr.  Lester  say  in  school  this 
morning,  that  he  wanted  to  form  a  Confirma 
tion  class,  to  instruct  all  those  who  might  de 
sire  to  receive  that  sacred  rite ;  now,  Emma, 
it  is  your  duty  to  join  this  class.  You  do  not 
thereby  pledge  yourself  to  be  confirmed,  you 
only  evince  a  disposition  willing  to  be  taught. 
You  will  not  be  required  to  expose  the  feelings 
and  purposes  of  'your  heart.  His  instructions 
will  be  general;  he  will  ask  no  questions,  and 
exact  no  disclosures  which  you  will  be  vnwill- 
ing  to  make ;  but  will  tell  you,  with  all  the 
rest,  earnestly  and  affectionately,  Avhat  is  your 
duty,  and  what  character  is  necessary  for  you 
to  come  into  the  'Church.  He  will  tell  you  all, 
that  he  will  be  happy  to  see  any  one  of  you, 
at  any  time,  in  his  study,  where,  alone,  you 
can  tell  him  your  doubts  and  difficulties,  and  he 
can  give  to  you  the  advice  and  counsel  adapt 
ed  to  your  case.  And  if  you  never  go  to  him 
at  all,  he  will  not  urge  you  to  come,  and  weary 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  209 

you  with  importunities;  but  will  patiently  wait 
for  another  and  more  favorable  opportunity  for 
winning  your  confidence,  and  finding  an  av 
enue  by  which  his  instructions  may  reach  your 
heart." 

"Tf  this  be  true,  Bessie,  I  will  join  the  class 
with  pleasure.  I  had  not  intended  to  do  so, 
partly  because  I  preferred  to  continue  my  study 
alone  with  you,  but  more  particularly,  because 
I  was  afraid  that  Mr.  Lester  might  try  to  find 
out  what  is  in  my  heart,  by  questions  which  I 
would  not,  and  could  not,  answer  in  presence 
of  others." 

"  I  was  afraid,  Emma,  that  you  had  some  such 
ideas  as  these  of  a  Confirmation  Class,  and,  there 
fore,  I  have  explained  to  you  its  design  and 
method  of  instruction.  As  to  your  preferring 
our-  quiet  study  in  our  own  room,  I  have  no 
idea  of  giving  this  up,  for  it  is  both  as  pleasant 
and  as  profitable  to  me  as  it  is  to  you." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Bessie.  I 
began  to  be  afraid  that  you  might  be  growing 
tired  of  teaching  so  ignorant  a  scholar.  And 
now,  while  it  .occurs  to  me,  let  me  ask  a  ques 
tion  which  I  have  been  intending  to  ask  for  sev- 
18* 


210  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

cral  days,  but  I  never  could  think  of  it  at  the 
proper  time.  In  reading  the  Bible,  is  it  more 
interesting  and  instructive  to  read  each  day  a 
chapter  from  the  Old  and  one  from  the  Kc\v 
Testament,  or  to  begin  at  Genesis  and  go  regu 
larly  through  to  Revelation." 

"  I  think,  Emma,  that  the  Church  has  decided 
that  matter  for  you  far  better  than  I  can.  She 
has  prescribed  a  rule  for  reading  the  Holy  Scrip 
tures,  both  more  useful  and  pleasant  than  any 
other." 

"  And  what  is  that,  and  where  is  it,  Bessie  ? 
I  never  saw  it." 

"You  will  find  it,  Emma,  where  so  many 
other  things  are  found,  in  the  Book  of  Common 
Prayer." 

"  O  never,  Bessie !  I  have  read  the  Prayer 
Book,  every  word  of  it,  from  the  Order  -for 
Daily  Morning  Prayer  to  the  end  of  the  Psalms 
and  Hymns,  and  I  have  never  seen  one  word 
as  to  the  manner  of  reading  the  Bible." 

"No  doubt,  Emma,  you  read  very  carefully 
and  faithfully  after  you  commenced,  but  the  diffi 
culty  was  that  you  did  not  begin  at  the  begin 
ning." 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  211 

"Yes,  I?4id,  Bessie.  I  tell  you  that  I  com 
menced  at  the  very  first  word." 

"  Well,  Emma,  we  will  see,"  replied  Bessie, 
laughing,  and  taking  up  her  Prayer  Book,  she 
turned  to  "A  Table  of  Lessons  for  January."  "I 
suppose,  Emma,"  she  said,  "  you  have,  of  course, 
noticed  the  table  which  contains  the  appointed 
Lessons  for  all  the  Sundays  throughout  the 
year." 

"I  am  ashamed  of  my  ignorance,  Bessie,  but 
I  must  acknowledge  that  I  never  saw  it.  You 
know  that  Mr.  Lester  is  the  only  Episcopal  min 
ister  that  I  ever  heard  preach  regularly,  and  I 
have  noticed,  with  great  surprise,  the  taste  and 
discrimination  with  which  he  selected  the  lessons 
most  appropriate  to  his  sermons,  especially  on 
great  Festival  and  Fast  Days.  I  little  dreamed 
that  the  Church  had  chosen  for  him  both  the 
lessons  and  the  subject  of  his  sermon :  it  is  now 
no  matter  of  surprise  that  they  should  harmon 
ize  so  beautifully." 

"Yes,  Emma,  the  Church  leaves  as  little  as 
possible  to  the  discretion  of  her  ministers. 
AVeak,  erring,  and  fallible,  she  knows  the  best 
and  wisest  of  them  to  be,  and  therefore  she 


212  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

hedges  them  about  with  every  safeguard  to 
avoid  the  possibility  of  having  her  children  im 
properly  taught.  She  provides  prayers  and 
praises  which  she  requires  to  be  used,  selects 
portions  of  Scripture  which  must  be  read,  and 
often  in  the  course  of  the  ecclesiastical  year, 
chooses  subjects  which  she  requires  to  be  treat 
ed  of  in  the  pulpit.  Thus,  on  Christmas,  Good 
Friday,  Easter,  Whit-Sunday,  and  Trinity  Sun 
day,  she  desires  that  every  Episcopal  pulpit 
throughout  the  world  should  echo  with  these 
great  themes,  and  that  all  her  congregations 
should  be  compelled  to  listen  to  them.  But  to 
return  to  what  we  were  talking  about:  the  di 
rections  for  reading  the  Bible  throughout  the 
year.  If  you  will  glance  your  eye  along  this 
page  and  the  several  succeeding  ones,  you  will 
find  four  lessons  provided,  two  for  the  morning 
and  two  for  the  evening  of  each  day  of  the 
whole  year.  The  first  of  these  lessons  you  will 
notice  is  invariably  taken  from  the  Old  Testa 
ment,  for  although  it  is  in  the  later  portion  of 
the  revelation  that  a  Saviour  is  fully  and  dis 
tinctly  disclosed,  yet  the  Church  dares  not  de 
preciate  any  part  of  God's  Holy  Word,  but  fol- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  213 

lowing  the  example  of  her  Lord,  who  always 
magnified  and  honored  the  Law  and  the  Proph 
ets,  she  takes  care  that  her  children  shall  study 
the  Law  as  well  as  the  Gospel.  In  this  calen 
dar  you  will  observe,  that  of  the  books  of  the 
Old  Testament,  are  omitted  the  twro  Books  of 
Chronicles,  because  these  are  merety  a  repetition 
of  the  historical  records  contained  in  the  Kings, 
the  Song  of  Solomon,  and  the  Psalms.  These 
last,  you  know,  are  so  divided  in  the  Prayer 
Book  as  to  be  read  once  a  month.  Mother  told 
me  that  the  reason  why  the  Prayer  Book  thus 
provides  for  the  frequent  perusal  of  the  Psalms 
is,  because  they  contain  more  experimental  re 
ligion  than  any  other  portion  of  the  whole 
Bible.  In  other  parts  of  the  Scriptures,  religion 
is  taught  theoretically;  we  are  told  how  a  per 
son  ought  to  think  and  feel  and  act,  but  here 
we  see  repentance  and  faith  in  actual  vigorous 
exercise  in  a  man  in  all  respects  like  ourselves, 
and  in  some  instances  a  great  sinner-  It  is  an 
unfolding  of  Christian  experience,  of  fears  and 
anxieties  strangely  blended  with  simple  and  child 
like  trust,  and  this  exhibition  of  the  frames  and 
feelings  of  the  Christian  heart,  while  it  humili 


214  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

atcs  us  as  we  sec  the  imperfection  of  the  very 
best  of  God's  children,  is  at  the  same  time  a 
very  great  comfort  when  tempted  to  distrust  our 
own  sincerity  and  to  believe  that  we  cannot  be 
Christians  while  we  sin  so  constantly.  You  will 
notice,  that  in  this  calendar,  the  Book  of  Isaiah, 
instead  of  being  read  in  its  regular  order,  is 
appointed  for  the  month  of  December,  after  all 
the  rest  of  the  Old  Testament  has  been  read. 
Mother  said  that  this  was  because  the  Church 
has  appropriated  this  month  as  the  season  of 
Advent,  and  as  Isaiah  contains  more  frequent 
and  more  direct  prophecies  of  the  birth  of 
Christ  than  any  other  of  the  Old  Testament 
Books,  Jt  seems  peculiarly  appropriate  that  the 
lessons  for  this  season  should  be  taken  from  that 
Book. 

"Of  the  New  Testament,  the  Revelation  of 
St.  John  is  omitted,  because  most  of  it  is  a 
grand  prophetic  vision  of  the  glories  of  the  un 
seen  world,  into  whose  mysterious  depths  no 
mortal  mind  may  penetrate;  and,  as  there  is 
no  special  doctrine  taught  in  it,  and  it  is  so 
full  of  mysteries,  which  rash,  presumptuous  mor 
tals,  ever  curious  to  pry  into  the  hidden  things 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  215 

of  God,  may  '  wrest  to  tlieir  own  destruction,' 
the  Church  has  thought  best  not  to  require  a 
perusal  of  this  Book  at  stated  intervals,  but  to 
]eave  it  rather  to  the  option  of  the  reader.  And 
yet,  true  to  her  fear  lest  any  portion  of  God's 
Word  fall  into  disuse,  she  has  appointed  lessons 
from  this  Book  for  three  of  the  holy  days  of 
the  year,  and  extracts  from  it,  to  be  used  as 
the  Epistle  for  four  days,  one  of  them  Trinity 
Sunday,  one  of  her  highest  festivals. 

"By  following  the  directions  of  this  calendar, 
the  whole  of  the  Old  Testament  will  be  read 
once,  the  Gospels  and  Acts  twice,  and  the  Epis 
tles  three  times  in  the  course  of  the  year.  You 
will  at  once  perceive,  Emma,  the  wisdom  and 
propriety  of  this  arrangement.  Not  only  is  it 
more  beneficial  thus  to  read  systematically,  but 
it  is  much  more  interesting,  especially  in  the 
historical  and  narrative  parts  of  the  Bible.  We 
never  lose  the  connecting  thread ;  and,  by  read 
ing  at  the  same  time  portions  from  each  Testa 
ment,  we  discover  that  unity  of  design  which 
pervades  the  whole,  and  proclaims  them  both 
to  be  a  revelation  from  the  same  God." 

"You   spoke  just  now,   Bessie,"  said  Emma, 


216  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"of  Trinity  Sunday.  Now,  this  very  'high  fes 
tival,'  as  you  call  it,  of  Trinity  Sunday  seems 
to  me  the  only  superfluous  service  appointed  by 
the  Church.  In  the  provision  of  all  the  other 
festival  and  fast  days,  I  can  see  great  wisdom, 
because  they  all  bring  before  our  minds  some 
event  in  our  Saviour's  life  which  does  not  stand 
out  in  bold  relief  at  all  other  times.  But  I 
do  think,  if  one  thing  more  than  another  is 
echoed  and  re-echoed  throughout  the  whole  of 
that  Liturgy,  on  festival  and  fast  days,  on  Sun 
days  and  week  days,  it  is  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity.  The  first  thing  after  the  confession  of 
our  sins,  and  the  declaration  of  pardon,  is  an 
ascription  of  praise  to  the  Trinity.  We  never 
chant  a  psalm  without  concluding  with  it.  The 
Gloria  in  Excelsis  and  Te  Deuui  send  it  up  to 
Heaven  with  an  exultant  shout,  and  then  again, 
sinking  low  upon  our  knees,  we  are  taught  to 
plead : 

" '  God  the  Father  ;  God  the  Son,  Redeemer  ; 
God  the  Holy  Ghost ;  have  mercy  upon  us.' 

"And  still  again,  as  if  repetition  could  not 
weary,  goes  up  the  entreating  cry: 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  217 

" '  O  holy,  blessed,  and  glorious  Trinity,  three 
Persons  and  one  God,  have  mercy  upon  us.' 

""We  distinctly  avow  our  belief  in  this  doc 
trine  in  the  Creed,  we  add  to  the  Psalm  in 
metre  the  Gloria  Patri,  and  the  last  sound  that 
falls  upon  our  ears  in  the  Sanctuary  is  a  bless 
ing  pronounced  in  the  name  of  the  Trinity. 
ISTow,  Bessie,  I  do  not  object  to  this ;  I  like  it, 
because  this  repetition  keeps  a  vital  doctrine  al 
ways  in  our  memory ;  but  I  think  the  constant 
teachings  of  the  every-day  service  quite  enough. 
Why  devote  a  Sunday  specially  to  the  consider 
ation  of  a  doctrine  distinctly  held  up  to  view 
ten  times  in  each  morning,  and  eight  times  in 
every  afternoon  service  throughout  the  year?" 

"For  the  very  reason,  Emma,  that  a  careful 
mother  never  wearies  of  repetition,  when  that 
repetition  is  necessary  to  impress  upon  the  mind 
of  a  thoughtless  child  some  truth  of  vital  import 
ance  to  its  wTell-being.  How  patiently  does  th 
mother  teach  her  little  child  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet !  How  does  she,  again  and  again,  cor 
rect  mistakes,  and  try  by  every  artifice  in  her 
power  to  associate  the  name  of  the  letter  with 

its   shape   and   appearance.      ISTow,   Emma,   this 
19 


218  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

doctrine  is  the  alphabet  of  our  religion,  and  the 
Church,  careful  mother  that  she  is,  endeavors 
by  every  means  that  she  can  devise,  to  make 
us  believe  and  remember  it.  She  makes  us  sing 
it,  and  say  it,  standing  and  kneeling,  associates 
it  with  the  sweetest  of  her  music  strains,  and 
interweaves  it  into  her  most  penitent  confessions. 
Ah,  Emma!  it  is  a  glorious  feature  in  the 
Church  I  love,  that  while  some  deny  the  divin 
ity  of  her  blessed  Lord,  and  some  resolve  the 
personality  of  the  Holy  Ghost  into  a  mysterious 
essence,  whose  properties  and  influences  none 
can  define,  and  others  yet  again  believe  not  in 
any  God  at  all,  except  a  certain  principle  of 
life  existing  in  all  the  inanimate  things  of  na 
ture  ;  O !  it  is  a  glorious  thought  that  the 
Church,  true  to  her  name,  'keeper  and  witness 
of  the  truth,'  sends  up  daily  her  voice,  'yea, 
and  that  a  mighty  voice,'  and  proclaims  through 
the  lips  of  ten  thousand  of  her  children,  '  I  be 
lieve  in  God  the  Father :  I  believe  in  God  the 
Son :  I  believe  in  God  the  Holy  Ghost :'  and 
yet  not  content  with  all  this,  she  sets  apart  a 
special  Sunday  wherein  she  requires  of  all  her 
ministers  that  they  shall  again  reiterate  this  oft- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  219 

repeated  truth  in  the  ears  of  all  the  people, 
that  they  shall  tell  them  that  it  is  not  a  mere 
abstraction,  a  meaningless  dogma,  but  a  life-giv 
ing,  soul-converting  doctrine,  one  which  bears 
immediately  and  directly  upon  the  Christian  life 
and  character,  one  full  of  comfort  to  the  child 
like  spirit,  but  proclaiming  wrath  and  judgment 
to  the  proud  rejecter  of  its  mysterious  teachings. 
Trinity  Sunday  is  the  grand  doctrinal  festival  of 
the  Church.  All  the  others  commemorate  sim 
ple  events:  our  Lord's  birth,  his  resurrection, 
his  ascension.,  and  the  descent  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  This  festival  commemorates  only  a  doc 
trine,  the  all-important  one  of  the  Trinity,  the 
corner-stone  of  our  belief;  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  Church's  year  is  called  Trinity-tide,  and  is 
designated  by  Sundays  after  Trinity,  and  all  her 
teachings  during  this  time  seem  only  the  echo 
of  the  great  truth  which  is  sounded  in  our  ears 
on  this  day.  Into  the  services  for  Trinity  Sun 
day,  she  interweaves  other  explicit  declarations 
of  this  truth.  As  its  own  peculiar  Collect  she 
has  appointed  a  prayer,  whose  sublimity  of 
thought  and  expression  my  mother  used  to  say 
could  never  be  surpassed,  and  in  the  Coinmu- 


220  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

nion  Service,  as  a  proper  preface  to  that  grand 
Trisagion,  which,  in  its  threefold  ascription  of 
praise,  itself  acknowledges  the  Trinity,  the  Church 
has  declared  fully  and  explicitly,  in  language  so 
precise  that  it  will  not  allow  misrepresentation, 
her  belief  in  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost; — 
their  distinct  personality,  their  perfect  equality. 
Depend  upon  it,  Emma,  there  is  meaning,  there 
is  wisdom  in  all  this ;  it  is  not  vain,  useless  re 
petition." 

"  I  declare,  Bessie,"  replied  Emma,  "  it  is  an 
absolute  pleasure  to  me,  this  study  of  the  Pray 
er  Book,  this  search  into  its  hidden  meaning, 
this  constant  discovery  of  a  settled,  distinct  pur 
pose  in  all  its  services." 

"I  believe  it  is,  Emma;  and  I  sometimes  al 
most  envy  your  astonishment  when  you  find 
that  every  thing  in  that  service  was  placed 
there  for  instruction,  and  not  merely  as  a  form 
of  public  worship.  I  have  studied  this  book 
from  early  childhood,  and  its  unity  of  design 
and  harmony  of  teachings  have  all  been  care 
fully  pointed  out  to  me,  so  that  what  strikes 
you  as  extraordinary  I  look  upon  as  a  matter 
of  course  while  with  you  the  pleasure  of  dis- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  221 

coveiy  is  greatly   enhanced  by  its  unexpected 
ness." 

"There  is  one  more  question,  Bessie,  that  I 
wish  to  ask,  and  I  must  do  it  quickly,  for  in  a 
few  moments  the  bell  will  call  us  to  evening 
prayers.  Tell  me  the  origin  and  meaning  of 
the  name  Whit-Sunday,  another  of  the  high- 
festivals.  The  Epistle  tells  me  that  it  commem 
orates  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost  upon  the 
apostles  on  the  Pentecostal  day,  but  I  have 
searched  in  vain  through  the  Collect,  the  Les 
sons,  and  the  Gospel,  for  something  to  throw 
light  upon  the  meaning  of  the  word." 

"Whit-Sunday,  Emma,  is  an  abbreviation  of 
the  word  White-Sunday,  a  name  given  by  the 
ancient  Church  to  this  particular  day,,  because 
all  who  were  baptized  on  that  day,  and  all  who 
had  been  baptized  on  the  preceding  Easter,  came 
to  church  in  white  garments." 

"Then,  Bessie,  the  name  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  event  which  the  day  commemorates?" 

"No,    Emma,    I    believe    not.     It   simply   ac 
quired  its  name  from  the  ancient  custom  of  the 
Church.     But-  there  is  the  bell ;  put  on  your  bon 
net,  and  let  us  go." 
19* 


222  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

Emma  tied  on  her  bonnet,  and  as  she  did  so 
said  laughingly : — 

"I  do  not  feel  quite  so  averse  to  the  sound 
of  that  bell,  as  I  did  some  months  ago.  Do 
you  remember,  Bessie,  my  exclamation  of  im 
patience  when  it  interrupted  the  first  little  quiet 
conversation  we  ever  had  ?  I  laugh,  to  this  day, 
whenever  I  recall  your  expression  of  dismay, 
even  although  I  now  see,  myself,  how  wrong  it 
was  for  me  to  feel  and  speak  so." 

"Indeed,  Emma,  I  remember  very  distinctly 
what  you  said;  and  though,  of  course,  I  do 
not  recollect  my  expression  of  countenance,  I 
can  imagine  what  it  was,  for  I  do  well  remem 
ber  how  much  I  was  surprised  and  grieved.  I 
little  dreamed  then  that  this  thoughtless  out 
burst  of  feeling  would,  by  God's  blessing,  be 
the  means  of  leading  you  to  love  the  Church, 
and  that  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  helping 
you  to  love  her." 

"And  I  little  dreamed,"  returned  Emma  af 
fectionately,  "that  my  careless,  wicked  speech 
would  be  the  means  of  drawing  me  to  the  vrry 
best  friend  I  ever  had,  or  ever  can»  have  again ; 
one  who  was  wise  enough  and  patient  enough, 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  223 

and  loved  me   enough,  to   instruct  me  step  by 
step  all  along  this  way." 

"Do  not  speak  so,  Emma.  Half  my  pleas 
ure  would  be  destroyed  if  I  thought  that  you 
felt  under  obligations  for  any  thing  that  I  have 
been  able  to  do  for  you.  I  have  been  gratify 
ing  myself;  therefore  you  cannot  be  obliged." 


BESSIE     MELVILLE. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

Hush!  'tis  a  holy  tide; 

The  Lenten  Fast,  the  Church's  weeping-time, 
When  with  a  sad  and  heavy  heart  she  leads 
Her  children  to  a  dying  Saviour's  cross, 
And  bids  them  look,  and  whispers  in  their  ear: 
"This,  all  of  this  for  youT 

THE  weeks  rolled  by,  and  Ash-Wednesday, 
which  ushers  in  the  great  fast  of  the  Church, 
had  dawned.  Quietly  and  reverently  Mr.  Les 
ter  and  all  his  scholars  had,  on  the  Purification 
day,  removed  from  their  little  chapel  its  Christ 
mas  dress,  and  now  in  the  calm  of  evening  twi 
light,  when  they  were  assembled  there  for  pray 
ers,  he  had  told  them,  in  few  and  solemn  words, 
the  design  and  uses  of  this  Lenten  season." 

Emma  had  followed  her  friend's  advice,  and 
had  gone  regularly  to  Mr.  Lester's  Confirma 
tion  class,  and  felt  that  she  had  been  benefited 
by  his  counsels  and  instructions.  He  read  by 
her  countenance  that  she  was  deeply  interest- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  225 

ed;  he  often  saw  the  struggle  to  keep  back  the 
tears  and  conceal  her  feelings,  when  he  touched 
some  tender  chord  in  her  heart,  yet  he  said  not 
a  word  to  her  individually;  but  wisely  deter 
mined  to  wait,  satisfied  that  it  would  not  be 
long  before  she  would  voluntarily  come  to  seek 
his  counsel.  He  trusted  greatly,  too,  to  the  sea 
son,  with  its  holy  influences  and  employments, 
to  deepen  and  intensify  the  feelings  which  he 
saw  struggling  into  life  in  other  young  hearts 
beside  Emma's. 

It  was  the  first  Lenten  season  she  had  ever 
known.  To  Bessie  every  thing  was  perfectly 
familiar ;  but  while  she  loved  and  enjoyed  its 
solemn  services,  and  a  calm,  sweet  peace  per 
vaded  her  heart,  there  was  upon  Emma's  coun 
tenance,  all  the  while,  an  expression  almost  of 
awe,  which  plainly  told  that  she  was  not  at  rest 
within.  There  was  a  solemn  air  which  seemed 
to  surround  every  thing.  The  girls  did  not  wear 
gloomy  faces,  and  deny  themselves  every  recre 
ation,  but  their  cheerfulness  was  subdued,  and 
they  seemed,  all  the  time,  to  realize  that  it  was 
a  holy  season,  a  long  six-weeks  sabbath,  towards 
the  close  of  which  they  would  be  allowed,  with 


226  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

stilled  hearts  and  hushed  voices,  to  draw  very 
near  to  their  suffering  and  dying  Saviour,  to 
stand  beneath  the  shadow  of  his  cross,  and, 
finally,  to  look  with  the  broken-hearted  women 
upon  his  lonely  sepulchre. 

Twice  each  week,  at  the  sunset  hour,  Mr.  Les 
ter  lectured  to  his  little  congregation,  of  which 
his  pupils  formed  the  larger  proportion.  Each 
one  of  these  was  known  to  him,  personally  and 
intimately,  each  one  bound  to  him  by  the  double 
tie  of  pastor  and  teacher;  for  the  soul  of  each 
one  he  must  one  day  give  account  at  the  bar 
of  God;  and,  as  he  looked  at  his  senior  class, 
of  whom  Bessie  was  one,  five  girls,  of  whom 
she  alone  had  confessed  Christ  before  men;  and 
as  he  remembered  that  it  was  the  last  Lenten 
season  which  they  would  ever  spend  with  him 
— that  before  it  should  come  again  they  would 
all  be  launched  out  into  the  great  world,  and 
some  perhaps  would  be  in  the  spirit-land — he 
redoubled  his  exertions  and  his  prayers,  that  God 
would  bless  his  efforts  to  win  those  young  souls 
for  his  service,  and  that  they  might  come  up 
an  unbroken  band  to  the  Easter  feast. 

Mr.   Lester  was  not  what  the  world   calls   a 


BESSIE    MELVILLE  227 

talented  or  eloquent  man ;  lie  was  simply  an 
earnest-minded  Christian.  He  believed  that  hu 
man  intellect  could  not  add  any  interest  to  the 
last  touching  scenes  in  our  Saviour's  life,  and 
that  it  needed  no  epithets  of  his  to  impress  their 
reality  upon  the  minds  of  his  young  hearers. 
And  so,  week  after  week,  when  the  duties  of 
the  day  were  over,  and  tjje  sun  was  quietly 
sinking  to  his  rest— with  few  words  and  simple 
language  he  would  bring  before  their  minds 
some  scene  of  Buffering  or  ignominy  borne  by 
our  Saviour — until  gay  and  happy  hearts  were 
melted  into  sympathy  and  tears. 

It  was  always  Mr.  Lester's  custom,  in  his 
school,  during  the  first  three  weeks  of  Lent,  to 
assemble  his  scholars  twice  a  week  at  the  chap 
el,  for  the  purpose  of  practising  the  special  mu 
sic  for  Good  Friday,  and,  during  the  last  three 
weeks,  that  for  Easter.  This  was  peculiarly  ne 
cessary,  as  the  organ  was  played  by  one  of  the 
girls,  and  as  none  of  them  \vere  skilful  musi 
cians,  it  required  some  time  and  practice  to  en 
able  them  to  play  and  sing  in  such  a  way  as 
becomes  the  worship  of  God  Most  High.  He 
had  no  choir  in  his  church,  the  organ  was  on 


228  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

the  floor,  and  all  the  children  were  required  to 
sing. 

The  evening  service  was  over.  The  lecture 
had  been  upon  that  peace  which  our  Saviour 
promised  to  leave  as  a  legacy  to  his  orphaned 
disciples,  in  the  last  familiar  interview  with  them 
before  he  suffered ;  an  interview  whose  every 
word  of  tenderness  and  compassion  has  been  so 
faithfully  recorded  by  the  loving  disciple.  Ac 
cording  to  request,  the  girls  lingered  after  ser 
vice  to  practice,  and,  after  rising  from  their 
knees,  they  silently  gathered  around  the  organ. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken,  for  all  were  solemnized, 
and  they  waited  for  Mr.  Lester  to  tell  them  what 
to  do.  He  bade  them  turn  to  the  Eloi,  a  sad, 
touching  strain  of  music,  sung  in  some  of  our 
churches  as  an  appropriate  introduction  to  the 
solemn  Good  Friday  service,  and  adapted  to 
those  words  of  the  inspired  record:  "There  was 
darkness  over  all  the  earth,  and  the  vail  of  the 
temple  was  rent.  At  the  ninth  hour,  Jesus  cried 
tvith  a  loud  voice,  Eloi,  Eloi,  lama  Sabachthani. 
Father,  into  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit." 
The  shades  of  evening  were  fast  deepening  into 
darkness,  and  there  was  barely  light  enough 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  229 

struggling  through  the  stained  windows  to  en 
able  the  girls  t«  read  the  words.  Sweetly  in 
unison  with  the  quiet  hour,  the  gathering  dark 
ness,  rose  the  mournful  strain  of  music, 

"  There  was  darkness  over  all  the  earth." 

Most  of  the  girls  were  familiar  with  it,  but 
Emma  had  never  heard  it  before.  She  had 
come  to  listen  and  to  learn,  but  she  heard  not 
its  rich  harmony;  she  knew  nothing,  felt  noth 
ing,  except  that  there  was  a  low,  wailing  strain 
breaking  her  very  heart,  and  stealing  awray  un 
observed,  she  seated  herself  in  a  remote  corner 
of  the  church  and  wept  bitterly.  The  heart 
bowed  and  yielded  then.  The  "  loud,  loud 
voice"  of  a  dying  Saviour  penetrated  the  very 
depths  of  her  soul,  and  she  felt  that  she  could 
not  stay  longer  away  from  Him  from  whose  lips 
her  sins  had  extorted  that  bitter  cry. 

Bessie  had  looked  in  vain  for  her  friend  when 
they  were  all  ready  to  leave  the  church.  She 
had  returned  to  her  own  room,  and  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  dim  twilight  when  Emma  entered. 
She  was,  evidently,  much  excited,  and  her  voice 

trembled  as  she  said : 
20 


230  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"I  have  been,  at  last.  Bessie,  to  Mr.  Lester, 
and  have  told  him  all  my  wants,  and  fears,  and 
doubts.  He  says  that  the  Saviour  will  not  re 
ject  me,  and  his  Church  dares  not  do  it,  if  she 
could.  He  encourages  me  to  come,  and  I  will 
I  cannot,  cannot  any  longer  stay  away." 

Bessie  said  not  a  word,  but  clasping  Emma 
in  a  tight  embrace,  she  laid  her  head  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  yielding  to  her  impulsive  nature, 
wept  plenteous  tears  of  gratitude  and  thanks 
giving.  Presently  she  said,  "When  will  you 
come,  dear  Emma?  Do  not  delay  any  longer/' 

"I  wanted  Mr.  Lester,  Bessie,  to  baptize  me 
to-morrow,  but  he  will  not  consent.  He  says 
that  I  must  first  write  home  to  my  parents  and 
ask  their  advice  and  permission.  I  regret  the 
delay  very  much,  but  he  says  this  is  right  and 
proper,  that  I  would  be  violating  the  very  first 
duty  of  a  Christian  child  if  I  should  neglect  it, 
and  God's  blessing  would  not  rest  upon  the 
act." 

"Mr.  Lester  is  right,  Emma,"  said  Bessie; 
"but  you  have  no  idea  that  your  parents  will 
object  to  the  step  you  are  about  to  take,  have 
vou?" 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  231 

"!N"o,  Bessie,  they  will  not  object,  but  1  am 
afraid  that  they  will  not  think  I  am  acting  from 
any  deep  settled  purpose.  They  will  not  place 
any  obstacle  in  my  way,  simply  because  they 
indulge  me  in  every  thing.  I  shall  write  im 
mediately,  and  if  they  are  prompt  in  replying, 
the  letter  may  reach  me  by  Saturday,  and  I 
can  then  be  baptized  on  Sunday  morning.  Mr. 
Lester  says  I  must  have  at  least  one  witness ; 
the  Church  prefers  more,  but  you  and  Mary 
Seymour,  are  the  only  persons  in  the  world  that 
I  could  ask  to  do  this,  as  my  parents  are  not 
professed  Christians.  As  Mary  cannot  be  here, 
Mr.  Lester  says  that  he  will  be  satisfied  with 
you  alone.  But  I  had  forgotten  that  I  had  not 
yet  asked  you.  You  will  be  my  witness,  Bessie, 
will  you  not?" 

""With  the  greatest  pleasure,  my  dearest  Em 
ma.  How  eagerly  I  shall  look  forward  to  next 
Sunday.  I  am  almost  afraid  that  in  my  earn 
est  anticipations,  I  shall  be  tempted  to  forget 
present  duty." 

Emma  clasped  Bessie  in  a  warm  embrace, 
and  with  tearful  eyes  and  quivering  lips,  said: 

"  God  bless  you  for  it  all,  Bessie.     You  have 


232  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

interested  me,  instructed  me,  led  me ;  taught  me 
to  love  first  the  Saviour  himself  and  then  his 
Church.  But  for  you,  I  know  not  that  a  Bap 
tismal  Sunday  would  ever  have  dawned  upon 
me." 

Emma  went  to  her  room  and  wrote  a  letter 
to  her  parents,  telling  with  childlike  simplicity 
all  her  desires,  and  striving,  without  any  boast 
ing,  to  convince  them  that  she  was  not  acting 
from  caprice,  or  hasty  impulse,  or  from  persua 
sion,  but  calmly,  deliberately,  and  of  her  t>wn 
free-will.  She  received,  by  return  mail,  two  let 
ters;  one  from  her  parents,  yielding  without  an 
objection  to  her  wish,  merely  because  it  was 
her  wish,  and  as  she  folded  it  again  and  laid 
it  by,  she  could  not  but  feel  a  sense  of  des 
olation,  to  think  that  it  contained  in  this,  the 
most  important  act  of  her  life,  not  one  word 
of  sympathy  or  encouragement,  no  God-speed 
on  this  her  untried  journey.  An  oppressive 
sense  of  loneliness  overpowered  her;  she  felt 
as  if  a  line  of  separation  had  been  drawn  be 
tween  herself  and  those  dearest  to  her  heart;  as 
if  she,  a  dependent  child,  had  voluntarily  left  the 
parental  side,  and  adventured  herself  upon  an 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  238 

unknown  sea,  where  she  might  no  longer  look 
for  advice  and  guidance  from  those  she  loved 
so  well.  This  may  seem  a  light  trial  to  some, 
but  Emma  did  not  find  it  so.  Loving  her  -pa-4 
rents  devotedly,  she  realiztd  that  here,  in  the 
very  outset  of  her  Christian  life,  there  was  a 
cross  to  bear.  Unhesitatingly,  however,  and  un 
waveringly,  she  took  it  up.  Duty  now  clearly 
pointed  out  her  course,  and  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  rest  until  she  had  assumed  the  Bap 
tismal  vows,  and  had  received  in  return  a  Sa 
viour's  promises,  and  more"  eagerly  even  than 
Bessie  she  anticipated  the  approach  of  Sunday. 

The  other  letter  was  from  Mary  Seymour,  full 
of  Christian  sympathy,  of  warm  affection,  and 
sincere  pleasure  at  her  decision.  Emma  sorely 
felt  the  need  of  words  of  encouragement,  and 
they  were,  indeed,  refreshing  to  her ;  but  yet 
she  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  sigh,  as  she  re 
membered  that  all  this  must  henceforward  come 
from  a  stranger,  rather  than  from  those  upon 
whom  the  ties  of  nature  had  given  her  a  stronger 
and  a  higher  claim. 

In   his  conversations  with  Emma,  Mr.  Lester 

was  delighted  with  the   spirit  which  she   mani- 
20* 


23-i  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

Tested.  She  soon  learned  to  cast  aside  that 
shrinking  reserve  which  had,  for  so  long  a  time, 
raised  a  barrier  between  herself  and  her  minis- 
,er.  She  found  that  he  listened  kindly  and  at 
tentively  to  all  she  had  to  say,  that  he  could, 
and  did,  sympathize  with  her,  because  he  had 
once  been  precisely  in  her  present  condition,  and 
had  himself  experienced  all  her  feelings.  Know 
ing  that  her  parents  had  never  instructed  her, 
he  was  surprised  to  find  how  clear  were  her 
views  of  religious  obligation,  and,  remembering 
that  she  had  come  "there,  not  many  months  be 
fore,  entirely  unacquainted  with  the  usages  of 
the  Church,  he  was  astonished  to  find  how  thor 
oughly  acquainted  she  was  with  the  Prayer 
Book,  and  how  deeply  imbued  her  heart  was 
with  love  and  reverence  for  its  teachings.  But 
when  he  learned  that  all  this  was  the  result  of 
a  child's  instruction ;  that  the  sad-looking  orphan 
who  had  lately  come  into  his  school  had  brought 
with  her  such  a  wealth  of  religious  knowledge, 
and  such  weight  of  influence,  he  could  not  but 
realize  that  "God  had,  indeed,  chosen  the  weak 
tilings  of  the  world  to  confound  the  things  which 
are  mighty  " 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  235 

Sunday  morning  dawned  bright  and  cloudless. 
It  was  a  day  of  peculiar  interest  in  that  school. 
The  religious  feeling  that  had  been  awakened  was 
growing  deeper  and  more  intense ;  four  weeks 
of  the  sacred  Lenten  season  had  passed  away, 
and  Mr.  Lester's  heart  swelled  with  gratitude 
at  the  thought  that  its  solemn  services  had  left 
a  holy  impress  upon  every  heart ;  that,  in  the 
souls  .of  the  eight  professed  Christians  among 
that  little  band,  a  deeper  fervor  had  been  ex 
cited  ;  while,  of  the  remaining  twelve,  there  was 
not  one  of  whom  he  did  not  entertain  strong 
hopes  that  she  would,  at  the  approaching  Easter, 
give  an  outward,  formal  expression  to  the  desires 
and  purposes  of  her  heart  by  a  union  with  the 
Church. 

Reverently  and  solemnly,  realizing  fully  what 
she  was  doing,  and  honestly  purposing,  by  God's 
help,  to  fulfil  the  promises  which  she  then -made, 
Emma  assumed  her  Baptismal  vows.  And  as 
she  promised  to  "  continue  Christ's  faithful  sol 
dier  and  servant  unto  her  life's  end,"  and  as  the 
pledge  of  the  covenant  was  signed  upon  her 
brow,  witnessing  friends  on  earth  uttered  their 
hearty  "Amen."  Angels  in  Heaven  rejoiced 


236  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

over  the  returning  child,  while  a  merciful  Sav- 

o  * 

iotir  looked  with  loving  approbation  upon  the 
young  heart  consecrating  to  Hi  in  its  earliest 
affections.  And  Bessie  wondered  if  it  might 
not  be  permitted  to  her  mother  to  look  iVom 
her  spirit-home  upon  that  solemn  scene,  and  to 
utter  a  higher  note  of  praise  at  the  thought, 
that  this  blessed  result  might  all  be  traced  to 
the  quiet  home-teachings  which  made  up  the 
employment  of  her  earthly  life. 

The  service  was  over.  The  little  congrega 
tion  had  quietly  dispersed,  aud  Emma  went  to 
her  own  room,  and  on  her  bended  knees,  asked 
her  Heavenly  Father  to  assist  her  to  be  faith 
ful  ;  always  to  make  her  remember  that  if  she 
failed  to  receive  the  promises  which  had  that 
day  been  made  in  his  name,  the  fault  must  be 
in  her  own  negligence  in  fulfilling  her  covenant 
engagements.  She  th-en  went  into  Bessie's  rocm, 
aud  throwing  herself  upon  the  floor  close  be 
side  her  friend,  and  laying  her  head  in  Bessie's 
lap,  her  pent-up  feelings  found  relief,  and  like 
a  little  child  she  wept,  but  they  were  soothing 
not  bitter  tears;  and  yet  her  heart  was  not, 
even  now,  altogether  at  rest.  The  long  con- 


BESSIE    HELVILLE.  2o7 

flict  was  over ;  she  had  done  what  she  believed 
to  be  right,  and  what  she  would  not  for  worlds 
have  undone ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  she  now  be 
gan,  for  the  first  time,  fully  to  realize  what 
comprehensive  promises  she  had  made,  and  how 
unable  she  was  to  fulfil  them,  and,  in  the  very 
commencement  of  her  journey,  she  was  tempt 
ed  to  sit  down  by  the  way-side,  in  utter  dismay 
at  her  own  inability  to  contend  against  the  dif 
ficulties  of  the  way.  At  last  she  said: 

"Oh,  Bessie!  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  prom 
ised  to'o  much,  so  much,  so  very  much  more 
than  I  can  ever  perform.  Those  vows,  how 
they  ring  in  my  ears !  how  shall  I  ever  entirely 
fulfil  them?" 

"You  will  fulfil  them  best,  my  dear  Emma, 
by  never  losing  sight  of  the  fact,  that  you  did 
not  assume  them  in  your  own  strength.  Tlw) 
Church  ever  cultivates  in  her  children  a  spirit 
of  self-distrust,  and  teaches  them  to  promise 
nothing  except  by  God's  help.  Hence,  in  tho 
Baptismal  Office,  the  candidate  is  always  taught 
modestly  to  say,  '  I  will  by  God's  help ;'  and  in 
•the  Ordination  Office,  'I  trust  so,'  'I  think  so,' 
kl  will  do  so  by  the  help  of  God.'  Every  thing 


238  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

like  presumption,  or  self-sufficiency,  the  Church 
utterly  discountenances.  In  the  answers  put 
into  your  mouth,  she  has  herself  taught  you 
where  to  look  for  assistance;  and  the  promises, 
whose  comprehensiveness  and  solemnity  might 
well  startle  you,  if  undertaken  in  your  own 
strength,  will  not  be  difficult  to  perform  in  the 
strength  of  Him  'who  hath  made  Heaven  and 
earth.'  This  lesson  of  mingled  self-distrust  and 
perfect  confidence  in  God,  she  even  interweaves 
into  one  of  the  hymns  for  Confirmation,  and 
after  repeating  it  with  the  lips  in  the  responses, 
and  uttering  it  with  the  heart  in  the  prayers, 
she  makes  her  children  sing ; 

'"We  trust  not  in  our  native  strength 
But  on  his  grace  rely.' 

Can  you  not,  dear  Emma,  sometimes  look  away 
from  yourself,  your  infirmities,  and  sins,  and  fix 
your  eyes  upon  Him  'wrho  is  able  to  do  for  us 
exceeding  abundantly  above  all  that  we  can  ask 
or  think?'" 

"Perhaps  I  can,  Bessie;  at  least  I  can  try. 
Is  it  strange,  is  it  wTrong,  that  I  should,  just 
here,  at  the  very  commencement  of  my  Chris- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  239 

tian  course,  think  so  much  of  my  own  weakness 
and  so  little  of  my  Saviour's  all-sufficiency?" 

"  !N"ot  at  all,  Emma ;  indeed  it  seems  to  me 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  Our  Sav 
iour  designs  us  to  look  much  at  ourselves  and 
our  weakness,  in  order  that  we  may  more  fully 
lean  upon  Him,  but  He  does  not  desire  us  to 
keep  our  eyes  so  constantly  fastened  upon  our 
selves  as  to  make  us  sad  and  desponding.  The 
little  child,  while  its  mother  leads  it,  walks  con 
fidently  and  delightedly,  but  wrhen  she  leaves  it 
alone,  trembling  and  tottering  it  seeks  to  regain 
the  sustaining  hand.  Just  such  little  children 
must  we  ever  be,  if  we  wish  to  wralk  securely 
and  happily  in  the  Christian  course,  clinging  to 
a  Saviour's  guiding  hand,  or,  as  the  Psalmist 
expresses  it,  'holding  us  fast  by  God.'  Do  not 
be  in  too  much  of  /i  hurry,  Emma,  to  have  all 
those  frames  and  feelings  which  yon  imagine  a 
Christian  ought  to  have.  God  works  in  matters 
of  religion  as  He  does  in  the  natural  world,  by 
degrees,  and  you  must  not  doubt  your  sincerity 
or  your  ability  to  be  a  sincere  Christian  because 
you  do  not,  just  now,  feel  as  you  think  yon 
ought  to  do.  Your  feelings  and  purposes,  your 


240  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

«rhole  mind,  and  heart,  and  body,  too,  have  been 
in  a  state  of  great  excitement  for  several  davs 
and  you  must  wait  a  little  while  until  the  equi 
librium  is  restored,  and -you  are  brought  again 
into  your  usual  state  of  calmness,  and  then  you 
will  begin  to  experience  that  sweet  peace  which 
the  Saviour  gives  to  the  heart  which  has  just 
surrendered :  that  sense  of  rest  and  security  so 
precious  to  the  soul,  tempest-tossed  as  yours  has 
been,  upon  the  waves  of  indecision  and  doubt." 
"Thank  you,  dear  Bessie,"  replied  Emma. 
"Tour  mother  taught  you  to  comfort  as  well 
as  to  instruct.  I  will  wait  patiently,  and  will, 
in  all  things,  try  to  do  as  you  tell  me.  You 
have  led  me  into  the  Church,  and  one  would 
think  that  I  might  hereafter  get  along  withou.' 
any  human  help ;  but  I  am  so  blind  and  igno 
rant,  that  I  am  afraid  I  shall  overlook  many  ad 
vantages,  and  fail  to  enjoy  many  pleasures  which 
are  right  in  my  way,  and  which  I  shall  need 
some  one  to  point  out  to  me.  Your  office  is 
not  done  yet,  Bessie.  As  long  as  we  are  to 
gether,  you  will  have  to  be  the  teacher  and  ] 
a  learner  of  'the  first  principles.'" 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  211 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

Tread  softly !  'tis  the  room 

Where  sleeps  the  sick  and  dying.     Hush  each  noise, 
And  let  no  words  be  heard  save  those  which  fall 
From  Mother  Church's  lips,  those  loving  words 
With  which  she  comes  to  comfort  and  to  soothe 
Her  sick  and  dying  child! 

IT  was  Thursday  night  of  Passion  "Week,  a 
calm,  pure,  holy  night,  whose  quie-t  air  trem 
bled  with  the  subdued  sound  of  the  solemn  ser 
vice,  of  psalm  and  prayer,  and  lesson,  when  Mr. 
Lester  and  his  scholars  were  assembled  in  their 
little  chapel.  The  shadows  of  the  approaching 
Crucifixion  Day  had  already  settled  on  every 
heart,  and  yet  their  gloomy  sadness  was  sweet 
ly  softened  by  a  glow  of  holy  pleasure,  some 
what  akin  to  the  Easter  rejoicings,  as  the  whole 
school,  an  unbroken  band,  came  up  to  celebrate 
on  this,  the  night  of  its  institution,  the  Holy 
Communion.  To  that  sacred  feast,  more  than 

half  of  them  had  come  for  the  first  time;  and 
21 


241'  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

as  Mr.  Lester  looked  upon  his  little  flock,  his 
heart  overflowed  with  thanksgiving,  and  he  had 
a  sweet  foretaste  of  his  Easter  joy. 

But  there  were  two  of  the  scholars  who  were 
not  there,  the  two,  who,  perhaps  of  all  others, 
had  looked  forward  with  most  eagerness  to  this 
night. 

A  shaded  lamp  cast  a  feeble  light  upon  the 
objects  in  Emma's  room,  and  Bessie  moved 
noiselessly  about,  afraid  lest  she  might  disturb 
the  repose  of  her  sick  friend.  But  no  such  pre 
caution  was  necessary,  for  Emma  was  in  a  sleep 
so  profound,  that  nothing  could  disturb  her. 
She  had  complained,  the  day  before,  of  a  strange 
confused  sensation  in  her  head,  and  after  a 
night  of  feverish  restlessness  had  fallen  asleep 
in  the  morning,  and  had  not  awakened  since. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Lester  had  become 
anxious,  and  had  written  to  her  parents,  and 
Bessie  alarmed,  she  scarcely  knew  why,  had 
stayed  from  church  to  watch  by  her  bedside. 
The  hours  seemed  long  and  tedious  to  her,  while 
the  others  were  all  at  service.  The  church  was 
just  opposite  Emma's  room,  and  Bessie  could 
see  through  the  open  windows,  and  almost  hear 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  243 

the  words  as  they  were  spoken,  and  if  her  mind 
had  been  at  rest  she  could  have  followed  the 
service  throughout.  But  she  was  now  too  anx 
ious  to  do  any  thing-  except,  with  quiet  step  to 
pace  the  floor,  and  every  time  she  passed  the 
bed,  to  stop  and  gaze  earnestly  upon  Emma's 
face,  if  perchance  she  might  see  something  to 
relieve  her  mind  of  its  distressing  fears.  But 
there  was  no  change  ^  her  hair  was  thrown  from 
her  face,  and  in  its  full  luxuriance,  covered  her 
pillow,  her  cheek  rested  upon  her  band,  not 
a  muscle  moved,  and  but  for  her  deep  regular 
breathing,  Bessie  might  easily  have  imagined 
that  Emma  was  dead.  Strangely  familiar  with 
death  for  one  so  young,  Bessie  now  wondered 
if  it  could  be,  that  it  was  again  about  to  visit 
her,  and  to  sunder  a  tie  well-nigh  as  strong 
and  Holy  as  that  which  had  bound  her  to  her 
sister.  In  doubt  and  fear,  and  hope  and.  dread, 
the  hours  passed  wearily  enough,  and  it  was 
with  a  feeling  of  inexpressible  relief  that  she 
heard  returning  footsteps,  and  recognized  Mr. 
Lester's  voice'  as  he  approached  the  room.  He 
looked  at  Emma  with  a  distressed  and  anxious 
face,  sent  off  again  for  the  physician,  who  came 


BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

immediately,  and  used  every  expedient  to  aroune 
her,  but  in  vain.  He  asked  when  her  parents 
could  reach  them,  and  Bessie  noted  with  a  thrill 
of  agony,  the  gloomy  shrike  of  the  head  with 
which  he  received  the  reply:  "Certainly  not 
before  Saturday." 

Through  the  long  and  weary  hours  of  that 
night  Bessie  and  one  of  her  young  companions 
watched  beside  Emma.  It  was  a  lonely  vigil, 
for  they  had  nothing  to  do  for  her,  they  could 
only  sit  and  look  at  her,  and  wonder  and  dread 
the  result.  She  slept  on  in  deep,  calm,  unbroken 
slumber,  and  when  the  bright  beams  of  the  morn 
ing  sun  streamed  through  the  window,  and  rest 
ed  upon  her  face,  they  could  not  penetrate  the 
thick  darkness  of  her  utter  unconsciousness,  but 
still  she  slept. 

A  sad,  sad  day  was  that  Good  Friday  in  Mr. 
Lester's  school.  Bessie  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  leave  her  friend  to  take  any  rest,  and,  as 
there  was  nothing  to  do  except  to  sit  beside 
her,  she  insisted  that  all  the  others  should  attend 
service. 

The  last  stroke  of  the  clock,  as  it  pealed  the 
hour  of  nine,  just  died  away  on  the  air,  as  Mr. 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  2-15 

Lester  began  to  read  the  Morning  Service,  and, 
after  this  was  finished,  he  spoke  a  few  minutes 
from  the  text,  "It  .was  the  third  hour  and  they 
crucified  Him."  It  needed  no  imagery  of  his, 
no  powerfully  wrought  description  to  bring  be 
fore  the  minds  of  his  hearers  a  scene  so  minutely 
described  in  the  Gospel  for  the  day,  and  im 
pressed  upon  them  by  every  accompanying  cir 
cumstance,  even  by  the  hour  selected  for  the 
service,  that  same  third  hour  in  which  our  Sav 
iour  was  nailed  upon  the  Cross. 

Again  in  fche  afternoon  the  congregation  was 
assembled.  Bessie  sat  in  her  place  by  the  bed 
side  and  clasped  Emma's  hand,  but  no  respon 
sive  pressure  was  returned,  and  still  and  passive 
it  lay  in  her  grasp.  She  looked  through  the 
open  window  upon  the  landscape  just  wearing 
its  spring  apparel,  with  its  beauty  subdued,  as 
it  were,  by  the  solemn  stillness  which  reigned 
everywhere,  and  wThich  seemed  in  unison  with 
the  holy  recollections  of  the  day.  Every  thing 
was  so  very  still,  that  Bessie  involuntarily  startled 
as  the  deep  tone  of  the  clock  was  heard.  It 
struck  three,  and  as  its  vibrations  trembled  in 

the  distance,  and  then  gradually  sunk  to  rea*    a 
21* 


24:6  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

voice  in  the  chapel  took  up  the  wail  of  the 
Eloi,  and  softly  and  sweetly  floated  upon  the 
breeze  the  strain,  "  At  the  ninth  hour  Jesus  cried 
with  a  loud,  loud  voice." 

Bessie  felt  a  slight  movement  of  the  hand 
which  she  grasped,  and  turning  hastily,  she  saw 
Emma's  eyes  wide  open,  but  staring  with  a  wild, 
startled  expression,  as  if  striving  to  collect  her 
thoughts  and  to  realize  where  she  was.  The 
strain  went  on,  and  its  low,  solemn  dirge  pene 
trated  the  heart  and  mind  which  had  been  so 
long  dead  to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  earth. 
The  troubled,  confused  expression^passed  away 
in  an  instant,  a  gleam  of  delighted  recognition 
lighted  up  her  countenance,  and  when  the  last 
strain  was  borne  to  her  ears,  starting  up,  she 
clasped  her  hands,  and,  in  a  low,  tremulous,  but 
clear  and  sweet  voice,  she  sang, 

"  Father,  into  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit." 

She  sank  back  upon  her  pillow,  exhausted, 
but  not  to  sleep.  The  strain  which  told  of  the 
Saviour's  death-agony,  recalled  her  to  life  and 
consciousness,  and  all  through  the  service  she 
lay  like  one  entranced,  listening  in  calm  repose 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  247 

to  the  music  which  now  and  then  floated  to 
her  ear,  and  to  the  words  of  prayer  which  she 
occasionally  distinctly  heard.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  Bessie  thought  she  slept,  but  when 
the  sound  of  returning  footsteps  assured  her  that 
the  services  were  all  over,  she  called  Bessie's 
name.  In  an  instant  Bessie  was  bending  over 
her,  and  listening  to  the  feeble  voice  which 
said : 

"What  is  to-day,  Bessie?  I  thought  just  now 
that  I  heard  Good  Friday  music." 

"And  so  you  did,  Emma.  This  is  Good  Fri 
day,  and  they  are  just  returning  from  the  Even 
ing  Service." 

"Why,  Bessie,  how  long  I  must  have  been 
asleep  ?  I  thought  yesterday  was  Wednesday." 

"ISTo,  Emma.  You  have  been  asleep  since 
Wednesday  night.  You  are  very  sick,  and  must 
not  talk  any  more.  It  is  very  necessary  that 
you  should  be  quiet." 

"Is  Mr.  Lester  here,  Bessie?" 

"  Yes ;  he  and  the  girls  have  just  come  from 
the  chapel." 

"Please  ask  him  to  come  here,  Bessie." 

Bessie  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  Mr.  Les- 


2-i8  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

tcr  came  immediately  into  the  room.  As  lie 
approached  the  bed-side,  Emma  said : 

"  Mr.  Lester,  Bessie  tells  me  that  to-day  is 
Good  Friday.  I  have  longed  for  this  day  to 
come,  and,  as  I  have  not  enjoyed  its  services, 
perhaps,  if  you  are  not  too  tired,  you  will  read 
the  Visitation  Office  for  me." 

"I  would  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  Emma, 
if  I  dared.  You  have  been  very  ill,  and  noth 
ing  now  will  insure  your  recovery  except  the 
most  perfe-ct  quiet.  I  dare  not  do  any  thing 
that  will  excite  you." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Lester,  it  will  soothe  rather  than 
excite  me.  AYhen  I  was  well  and  strong  I  loved 
to  read  that  Office,  and  now  that  I  feel  so  sick 
and  weak,  its  holy  words  will  be  very  comfort 
ing.  Must  I  be  the  only  one,  of  all  the  girls, 
to  whom  this  sacred  day  has  brought  neither 
comfort  nor  instruction  ?  Please  do,  Mr.  Lester." 

He  could  not  resist  her  entreaties,  for,  even 
while  he  feared  to  assume  any  responsibility  in 
her  case,  yet,  in  his  heart,  he  felt  assured  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  Visitation  Office  which 
might  not  enter  the  chamber  of  severest  sick 
ness,  and  so,  taking  up  a  Prayer  Book,  he  pro- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  249 

ceeded  at  once  to  gratify  her,  deeming  it  best 
to  have  no  other  person  in  the  room  except 
Bessie. 

Emma  opposed  this  arrangement.  She  said  : 
"Mr.  Lester,  please  to  bring  the  girls  in.  I 
can  read  in  your  countenance  and  Bessie's,  and 
my  own  feelings  tell  me,  that  I  have  been  very 
ill,  perhaps  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  and  it 
will  be  a  solemn  service  to  all  my  companions. 
Tell  them  not  to  speak  to  me  when  they  come 
in ;  I  am  too  sick  to  talk,  but  I  want  to  have 
them  all  in  the  room." 

Mr.  Lester,  without  an  objection,  arranged  it 
all  according  to  her  wishes,  and  soon  the  girls 
were  silently  assembled  in  that  "sick  chamber, 
which  was  to  be  for  the  time  being  changed  by 
the  holy  words  of  prayer  and  praise  into  a.  lit 
tle  sanctuary,  and  with  their  young  companion 
stricken  down  in  a  moment  before  their  eyes, 
and  brought  in  a  few  hours  from  perfect  health 
to  the  very  borders  of  the  grave,  the  Visitation 
Office  proved  to  those  girls  the  most  impressive 
of  Good  Friday  Services.  After  the  "Thanks 
giving  for  the  beginning  of  a  recovery,"  Mr 
Lester  laid  his  hand  upon  Emma's  head  and 


250  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

pronounced  over  her  the  Benediction,  which  she 
luid  herself  noticed  as  being  so  peculiarly  appro 
priate  to  the  sick  and  suffering;  and  as  he  did 
so,  her  appearance  of  calm  repose  assured  him 
that  she  had  been  right  in  her  belief  that  the 
service  would  soothe  and  not  excite  her. 

Bessie  never  left  her  friend  for  a  moment,  un 
til  she  surrendered  her  to  the  care  of  her  pa 
rents  who  arrived  on  Saturday,  and  were  greatly 
shocked  to  see  the  fearful  change  which  this 
short  illness  had  wrought  in  the  appearance  of 
their  blooming  daughter.  When  they  learned 
how  tenderly  and  constantly  Bessie  had  nursed 
her,  and  when  they  saw  in  her  appearance  the 
traces  of  sleepless  nights  and  anxious  days,  they 
felt  that  words  were  altogether  too  poor  to  ex 
press  their  gratitude.  Emma,  too,  seemed  to  la 
ment  that  circumstances  so  ordered  it,  that  Bes 
sie  was  always  doing  something  for  her,  while 
no  opportunity  was  ever  afforded  her  for  doing 
any  thing  for  Bessie. 

"Never  mind,  Emma,"  said  Bessie,  as  she 
bade  her  friend  good-bye,  the  morning  that  her 
parents  took  her  home  with  them;  "the  time 
will  come  when  you  can  do  me  a  favor." 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  251 

it,  Bessie,"  replied  Emma,  warmly, 
"  and  no  matter  what  it  is,  I  will  do  it  with  the 
greatest  pleasure." 

"Well  then,  Emma,  promise  me  again  that 
you  will  spend  the  summer  vacation  with  me, 
and  do  not  allow  any  thing  but  a  really  formi 
dable  obstacle  to  prevent  your  fulfilment  of  the 
promise." 

"That  I  will,  Bessie,  and  if  this  is  the  way  in 
which  I  am  to  return  all  your  kindness,  you 
have  chosen  for  me  a  singularly  pleasant  one. 
I  almost  hoped  that  you  Would  ask  something 
which  would  require  a  sacrifice  on  my  part." 

"Good-bye,  Bessie,"  said  Mr.  Walton,  as  he 
grasped  her  affectionately  by  the  hand,  "God 
bless  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  my  daughter. 
If  I  live  and  she  lives,  she  shall  pay  you  that 
promised  visit,  for  I  will  myself  bring  her  and 
give  her  into  your  own  hands." 

And  they  drove  off  and  left  Bessie  lonely,  in 
deed,  without  her  young  friend,  but  sincerely 
thankful  that  a  merciful  God  had  spared  her  the 
pain  of  that  life-long  separation,  which  had  a 
few  days  before  seemed  so  inevitable. 


252  BESSIE    MELVILLS. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

Forbid  not, 

Heathen  though  I  be,  the  pure  baptismal  stream 
To  bathe  my  brow.    What  more  dost  thou  demand? 
For  I  believe  and  pray! 

TIIKEE  days  had  passed  away  since  Willie 
Kennedy's  schemes  of  philanthropy  had  been  so 
unexpectedly  blighted,  and  he  had  become  some 
what  accustomed  to  the  disappointment  which, 
at  first,  he  had  found  so  hard  to  bear.  It  was 
almost  sunset  as  he  strolled  down  to  the  wood 
in  whose  depths  his  Indian  friend  had  disap 
peared,  and  opening  a  long  letter,  received  that 
morning  from  Bessie,  he  began  to  give  it  an 
other  perusal.  This  letter  gave  him  peculiar 
pleasure,  for  it  had  come  after  a  long  interval, 
during  which  he  had  tortured  himself  with  con 
jectures  as  to  the  probable  cause  of  her  silence, 
and  it  was  written  as  she  always  wrote  to  him, 
freely,  and  without  reserve.  Willie  hud  never 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  253 

malyzed  his  feelings  for  Bessie.  The  idea  of 
carriage  had  never  occurred  to  his  mind  in  con 
nection  with  her,  and  yet  the  thought  of  her 
mingled  in  all  his  plans  and  lighted  up  all  his 
future.  He  knew  that  he  was  warmly  attached 
to  her,  vut  he  had  never  inquired  of  himself 
whether  that  attachment  was  not  principally 
made  up  of  the  elements  of  sympathy  and  com 
passion  for  her  lonely  and  desolate  condition. 

He  was  in  a  deep  reverie,  with  the  open  letter 
in  his  hand,  when  a  stealthy  step  approached  him 
unheeded,  and  he  started  as  two  hands  fell  sud 
denly  upon  his  shoulders,  and  his  look  of  amaze 
ment,  as  he  turned  hastily  round,  extorted  from 
his  Indian  friend  a  merry  laugh  utterly  incon 
sistent  with  the  imperturbable  gravity  of  his 
race.  Willie's  first  impulse  was  to  shake  him 
cordially  by  the  hand,  and  welcome  him  back 
in  words  which  if  his  friend  could  not  under 
stand,  he  could,  at  least,  plainly  read  the  pleas 
ure  written  on  Willie's  countenance.  The  return 
seemed  a  mutual  delight.  The  Indian  signed 
that  the  three  revolutions  of  the  sun,  which  he 
had  intimated  as  the  period  of  his  absen  '.e,  had 
been  fulfilled,  and  he  contrived  to  make  Willie 


254:  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

understand  that  he  hoped  he  would  hereafter 
trust  more  willingly  to  his  veracity.  He  opened 
a  bundle  which  contained  a  scanty  wardrobe, 
unrolled  one  article  after  another,  until,  securely 
placed  in  the  very  centre,  he  unfolded  two  little 
books  so  much  alike  that  it  was  impossible  to 
distinguish  them,  and  one  of  these  he  handed  to 
Willie,  who  immediately  recognized  the  Prayer 
Book  whose  loss  he  had  so  much  deplored. 
Hastily  seizing  the  other  book,  he  minutely  com 
pared  them,  but  there  was  no  distinguishable 
difference.  He  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  saw 
many  marks  which  seemed  to  have  been  made 
years  before,  but  there  was  nothing  to  indicate 
whence  it  came  or  to  whom  it  had  belonged 
except  the  initials  "J.  II.,"  faded  and  yel 
low  with  age.  Again  Willie's  intense  curios 
ity  forgot  the  barrier  of  silence  interposed  be 
tween  them,  and,  in  his  eagerness,  he  screamed 
into  the  Indian's  ear,  "whose  is  it  ?  where  did  you 
get  it?"  but  a  shake  of  the  head  was  his  only 
reply.  Again  he  resorted  to  the  book,  and  care- 
i'ully  turned  the  leaves  one  by  one,  hoping  to 
find  some  mark  which  would  give  a  little  in 
sight  to  the  mystery,  but  no  trace  of  any  letter 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  255 

could  he  find,  except  those  two  which  were  writ 
ten  on  the  inside  of  the  cover,  all  the  blank 
leaves  being  torn  out.  He  tried  to  inquire  by 
signs  how  that  book  came  into  his  possession, 
but  could  not  even  understand  from  the  gestures 
in  reply  whether  his  question  had  been  compre 
hended.  Earned  and  perplexed  on  every  side, 
he  hastily  concluded  that  the  disappointment  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected  was  greatly  pre 
ferable  to  this  unsatisfactory  intercourse,  and  was, 
for  the  moment,  tempted  to  be  sorry  that  the 
Indian  had  returned  at  all.  The  shadows  were 
fast  deepening,  and  Willie  expected  every  mo 
ment  that  his  friend  would  leave  him  again, 
but  he  had  no  such  intention,  and  when  Willie 
began  to  retrace  his  steps  to  the  school,  he  went 
with  him.  Great  was  the  amazement  of  both 
teacher  and  pupils  at  his  return,  and,  although 
new  difficulties  seemed  momentarily  to  present 
themselves  in  the  wray  of  intercourse,  and  dis 
couragements,  unnoticed  in  the  first  enthusiasm 
of  his  undertaking,  now  began  to  appear,  yet 
it  was  with  somewhat  of  a  feeling  of  triumph 
that  Willie  escorted  his  friend  back  again  into 
the  midst  of  those  who  had  smiled  in  derision 


256  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

at  his  Utopian  schemes,  and  had  enjoyed  his 
disappointment  when  those  schemes  had  been 
so  suddenly  overthrown.  The  Indian  went  im 
mediately  to  Willie's  room,  and  settled  himself 
there  as  if  he  intended  to  occupy  it,  took  out 
his  few  clothes  and  disposed  them  around  the 
walls  of  the  room,  and  made  himself  perfectly 
at  home. 

As  the  weeks  rolled  by,  and  Willie  resolutely 
and  patiently  continued  his  task  by  teaching  his 
companion,  he  was  frequently  tempted  to  give 
up  in  ittter  discouragement.  So  earnestly  he 
toiled,  and  so  many  expedients  he  devised,  with 
so  small  success,  that  he  almost  despaired,  and 
was  fast  becoming  of  the  opinion  of  his  teacher 
and  school-fellows,  that  his  undertaking  was  very 
visionary.  But,  notwithstanding  his  slow  pro 
gress,  he  determined  to  make  the  experiment 
fully  and  fairly,  and  never  to  give  up  his  ef 
forts  until  every  means  had  been  exhausted ; 
and,  with  but  little  sympathy,  and  no  assistance, 
he  worked  on,  battling  against  many  hindrances 
and  obstacles. 

Two  months  had  passed  away,  and  the  whole 
result  of  his  labors  was  only  this,  that  his  pup'X 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  257 

could  call  the  names  of  the  common  objects  of 
sight  and  sense,  and  could  make  known  his  or 
dinary  wants  ;  but  every  effort  to  convey  to  his 
mind  any  abstract  truth  had  been  wholly  unsuc 
cessful.  He  attended  the  chapel  services  regu 
larly,  and  frequently  spent  an  hour  in  the  recita 
tion  room,  and  really  seemed  to  strain  ear  and 
mind  to  catch  the  meaning  of  what  he  heard, 
but,  thus  far,  it  had  all  been  in  vain.  Wil 
lie  had  all  -along  been  animated  by  the  hope 
that  the  constant  reiteration  of  the  English  lan 
guage  might,  at  last,  awaken  that  knowledge  of 
it  which  he  was  sure  he  once  possessed ;  but, 
as  week  after  week  passed  away,  and  he  did 
not  take  the  expected  leap  into  a  thorough  ac 
quaintance  with  it,  the  hope  had  almost  become 
extinct. 

From  his  mother  and  Bessie,  \Villie  received 
more  sympathy  than  from  any  others,  and  but 
for  their  letters  of  encouragement,  he  might  at 
last  have  given  up  in  despair.  While  others 
spoke  of  the  obstacles  to  be  overcome,  the  un 
certainty,  the  impossibility,  Bessie's  impetuosity 
saw  not,  thought  not  of  these.  She  overleaped 
all  that  intervened  between  present  difficulties 
22* 


258  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

and  ultimate  success,  and  saw  a  you-ng  heathen 
savage  transformed  into  a  civilized  and  chris 
tianized  man  through  Willie's  instrumentality 
alone.  Mi's.  Kennedy,  though  not  quite  so  san 
guine  as  Bessie,  yet  thought  it  best  to  sustain 
his  hopes,  and  so  she  even  wrote  to  bid  him 
God-speed,  and  to  urge  him  to  fresh  endeavors. 
In  one  of  his  letters  to  Bessie  he .  had  spoken 
of  the  probable  necessity  of  one  day  asking  as 
sistance  for  the  education  of  his  friend,  but  said 
that,  until  the  success  of  his  scheme  was  placed 
beyond  a  doubt,  he  thought  it  best  not  to  make 
any  effort  of  this  kind.  This  was  enough  for 
Bessie.  "Without  asking  the  advice  of  any  one, 
she  at  once  interested  the  school-girls  in  the 
story,  a  sewing  society  was  immediately  organ 
ized,  and  was  in  full  operation,  before  it.  ever 
occurred  to  any  of  them  to  ask  what  was  to  be 
done  with  their  work  after  it  was  completed, 
for  as  they  were  in  the  country  they  could  not 
find  purchasers.  But  Bessie  was  not  to  be  baf 
fled  by  this  obstacle.  She  wrote  to  Mrs.  Wal 
ton  and  requested  her  advice  and  co-operation, 
asking  if  she  would  not  undertake  to  dispose  of 
their  work  in  the  city,  if  they  would  do  it  very 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  259 

neatly.  Glad  of  an  opportunity  to  gratify  her, 
Mrs.  Walton  returned  a  very  kind  answer,  en 
tering  into  all  her  plans,  advising  what  work 
should  be  done,  promising  to  dispose  of  every 
article  advantageously,  and  enclosing  a  fifty  dol 
lar  note  from  her  husband,  as  a  beginning  of 
the  fund,  and  hoping  that  its  growth  would  ex 
ceed  their  most  sanguine  expectations.  "With 
this  letter  came  one  from  Emma,  full  of  curious 
inquiries  about  this  Indian  youth,  and  romantic 
imaginings  as  to  the  mystery  of  his  early  educa 
tion,  and  with  a  burst  of  generous  enthusiasm, 
worthy  of  Bessie  herself,  promising  to  interest 
her  friends  in  him,  and  to  get  "plenty  of  mo 
ney"  to  educate  Willie's  heathen  friend.  Thus 
encouraged,  the  girls  worked  faithfully  and  in 
dustriously.  The  portion  of  each  of  Willie's  let 
ters  containing  any  account  of  his  pupil's  pro 
gress,  was  duly  read  to  the  assembled  society, 
and  Mr.  Lester's  school  was  excited  to  quite  a 
furor  of  enthusiasm  before  Willie  had  ever  de 
cided,  in  his  own  mind,  that  it  was  possible  to 
educate  him.  Bessie  wanted  some  name  beside 
"  the  Indian,"  by  which  to  designate  him,  and 
Then  she  wrote  to  Willie  about  it,  he  replied 


260  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

bj  requesting  her  to  select  one  herself.  She 
desired  that  he  might  be  called  Herbert,  after 
her  mother's  maiden  name,  and  when  Willie  as 
sented  to  this,  she  thought  that  she  could  work 
more  cheerfully  and  earnestly  fo-r  him,  since 
there  was  some  association  of  her  mother  con 
nected  with  him. 

The  mild  and  genial  glow  of  spring  had  deep 
ened  into  the  intenser  fervor  of  summer,  and 
the  boys  were  beginning  to  think  and  talk  of 
their  return  home  for  the  long  summer  vaca 
tion.  Herbert  (for  by  this  name  alone  the  In 
dian  was  now  called)  could  now  perfectly  un 
derstand  short  sentences  when  spoken  slowly, 
and  was  beginning  to  try  to  carry  on  a  con 
nected  conversation.  He  was  thoroughly  domes 
ticated  at  the  school.  Both  teacher  and  schol 
ars  treated  him  always  kindly;  indeed,  he  was 
himself  so  gentle  and  inoffensive,  that  they 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  kind  to  him.  He 
seemed  every  day  to  be  gaining  some  new  ideas, 
and  Willie  began  to  see  some  of  the  first-fruits 
of  his  self-denial  and  toil ;  and  as  the  prospect 
brightened,  others  among  the  boys  tried  to  teach 
him,  and  when  once  the  avenues  to  his  compre- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  261 

hension  were  fairly  open,  it  seemed  that  Willie's 
patient  efforts  were  in  a  fair  way  to  be  crowned 
with  ultimate  success. 

Just  at  the  close  of  the  session,  one  of  the 
boys  was  baptized,  and  Herbert  witnessed,  for 
the  first  time,  this  impressive  rite.  During 
chapel  services,  he  always  listened  \vith  eye  and 
ear,  and  it  was  touching  to  observe  how  his 
whole  mind  and  body  seemed  to  be  strained  in 
anxiety  to  understand  every  thing,  and  in  appre 
hension  lest  something  might  be  lost.  His  voice 
was  always  heard  in  the  Creed  and  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  but  the  words,  though  thoroughly  Eng 
lish  in  their  pronunciation,  without  the  slightest 
foreign  accent,  were  spoken  just  as  imperfectly 
as  a  little  child  would  speak  them  when  first 
learning  to  talk.  At  this  Baptismal  Service,  his 
whole  soul  seemed  as  usual  intent  upon  under- ' 
standing  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw.  He  rose 
»  with  the  congregation,  but  when  they  seated 
themselves  he  was  totally  abstracted,  and  stood 
leaning  forward  in  an  attitude  of  the  most  in 
tense  eagerness.  His  countenance  wore  a  con 
fused,  troubled  expression,  as  if  it  were  all  new 
and  strange  ;  something  whose  meaning  and  de 


262  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

sign  lie  could  not  grasp.  But  at  the  words,  "1 
baptize  tbee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of 
the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  a  light  seemed 
to  break  in  upon  his  soul,  and  beam  forth  from 
his  eyes,  and  some  chor$  was  touched  which 
proved  the  key-note  to  a  long-forgotten  strain. 
To  leave  the  place  where  he  was  standing,  rap 
idly  to  go  to  the  chancel  and  place  himself  side 
by  side  with  the  candidate,  was  the  work  of  an 
instant,  and  he  stood  there,  and  with  breathless 
interest  watched  the  remainder  of  the  service. 

After  it  was  all  over,  he  quietly  detained  Wil 
lie  until  all  were  gone  and  they  were  left  alone 
in  the  chapel ;  then,  leading  him  to  the  font, 
he  motioned  that  he,  too,  wanted  to  be  baptized 
and  signed  with  the  sign  of  the  Cross.  Willie 
was  amazed  and  distressed,  for  he  greatly  fear 
ed  that  he  never  could  make  him  understand 
why  his  desire  could  not  be  immediately  grati 
fied.  He  told  him  as  plainly  as  he  could,  that 
he  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  what  he 
saw,  that  he  must  first  learn  and  believe  certain 
things  before  this  rito  could  be  of  any  benefit 
to  him.  Herbert  perfectly  understood  him,  and, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face,  he  laid  his  hand 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  263 

upon  his  heart,  which  was  always  the  sign  to 
indicate  very  great  sincerity  and  earnestness,  and, 
in  a  voice  whose  solemnity  Willie  had  never 
heard  equalled,  he  repeated  the  Creed  and  the 
Lord's  Prayer.  Then  he  touched  the  water,  ap 
plied  it  to  his  forehead,  and,  looking  at  his  friend 
with  an  expression  of  anxious  pleading  which 
went  to  Willie's  heart,  he  said  only  two  words : 
"  Why  not  ?"  Willie  asked  him  to  go  with  him 
to  see  his  teacher,  hoping  that  he  might  be 
able,  more  satisfactorily  than  himself,  to  explain 
to  Herbert  why  he  could  not  yet  be  admitted 
to  this  sacrament.  Herbert  went  with  him ;  but 
to  every  objection  urged  by  the  teacher  he  only 
replied  with  a  most  emphatic  repetition  of  his 
request.  He  seemed  determined  to  carry  his 
point,  and  that,  too,  not  by  unyielding  perti 
nacity,  but  by  looks  and  gestures,  with  now  and 
then  a  word  of  earnest  entreaty,  which  the  teach 
er,  as  well  as  Willie,  found  it  very  hard  to  resist. 
At  length,  Willie  told  him  that  he  should  go 
home  with  him  in  the  vacation,  and  that  his 
father  would  patiently  explain  to  him  what  was 
necessary  for  him  to  be  baptized,  and,  if  it  were 
right,  would  himself  baptize  him.  With  this 


26-i  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

promise  Herbert  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied,  al 
though  he  was  sadly  disappointed,  and  looked 
distressed  for  days  afterwards. 

Willie  had  before  determined  that,  if  it  were 
practicable,  he  would  take  Herbert  home  with 
him  to  spend  the  vacation.  He  thought  that 
this  would  be  advisable  for  many  considerations. 
He  needed  his  father's  sound,  deliberate  judg 
ment  to  counterbalance  his  enthusiasm ;  and  he 
was  not  wrong  in  supposing  that  Mr.  Kennedy's 
practical  sense  would  be  eminently  useful  in  de 
vising  ways  and  means  for  the  accomplishment 
of  his  plans.  He  wanted  his  father  to  become 
acquainted  with  Herbert,  that  he  might  form 
his  own  opinion  of  his  character  and  capacity, 
and,  besides  all  this,  he  knew  that  there  is  noth 
ing  like  personal  contact  in  arousing  sympathy, 
and,  as  he  expected  to  derive  the  means  of  edu 
cating  the  young  Indian  from  his  father's  par 
ishioners,  he  was  particularly  anxious  that  they 
should  see  and  know  him.  Herbert  received 
the  proposition  to  accompany  Willie  home  with 
stoical  indifference.  Unaccustomed  to  the  usages 
of  civilized  life,  he  did  not  appreciate  it  as  a 
special  compliment,  but  rather  looked  upon  it, 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  265 

as  a  matter  of  course,  that  where  Willie  went 
he,  too,  should  follow. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  received  him  with 
every  mark  of  kindness,  and  were,  perhaps,  more 
careful  of  his  comfort  than  they  would  have 
been  if  he  had  been  a  more  distinguished  guest. 
Utterly  unused  to  seeing  a  female  occupy  the 
place  in  the  social  circle  which  Mrs.  Kennedy 
held,  and  perceiving  the  deference  and  respect 
always  paid  to  her  opinions  and  wishes,  he  was 
at  first  amazed,  and  then  began  to  regard  her 
with  a  feeling  of  reverence,  and  when  he  saw 
her  so  constant  in  her  attentions  to  himself,  and 
so  anxious  to  make  him  comfortable  and  happy, 
his  gratitude  and  affection  were  awakened,  and 
were  manifested  in  a  manner  very  unusual  in 
one  of  his  undemonstrative  race.  He  followed 
her  all  day  long,  even  when  about  her  domestic 
concerns,  and  she  did  not  object  to  it,  for  her 
woman's  tact  at  once  perceived  what  a  hold  she 
had  upon  him,  and  how  she  might  influence 
him.  She  talked  a  great  deal  to  him  in  the 
simplest  language  about  the  great  truths  of  our 
religion,  and  the  kindling  of  his  eye  testified 

that    he   knew  more   of    these   things    than   she 
23 


2G6  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

thought  he  could  possibly  have  learned  during 
the  few  months  of  his  intercourse  with  Willie. 
She  encouraged  him  to  talk,  and  led  him  on  so 
gently  and  persuasively,  that  she  and  all  the 
family  were  surprised  at  his  perceptible  progress 
in  a  few  weeks.  Mr.  Kennedy  was  decidedly  of 
the  opinion  that  he  should  be  sent  to  one  of 
the  mission  schools,  and  Willie  wondered  that 
he  had  not  thought  of  this  before.  The  propo 
sition  was  laid  before  Herbert,  and  it  was  ex 
plained  to  him  that  this  would  be  greatly  to  his 
advantage.  He  shook  his  head  doubtfully  at 
first,  then  wanted  to  know  if  Willie  would  go, 
too,  and  when  answered  in  the  negative,  to  the 
surprise  of  every  one,  he  gave  a  decided  and 
most  unequivocal  refusal.  Willie  and  his  fa 
ther  were  worried,  but  Mrs.  Kennedy  begged 
that  they  would  not  be  impatient,  but  wait  until 
she  had  tried  her  persuasive  powers,  and  after  a 
few  days  she  succeeded,  as  she  had  predicted, 
in  gaining  his  consent,  and  it  was  arranged  that 
when  Willie  went  to  the  Theological  Seminary 
in  the  ensuing  autumn,  he  should  first  place 
Herbert  in  the  Chippeway  Mission  School. 
It  was  a  pleasant  circle  that  assembled  every 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  267 

evening  of  that  summer,  upon  the  little  vine-claf1 
porch  of  the  rectory.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy, 
Bessie  and  Emma,  Willie,  Herbert,  and  Mary, 
formed  a  quiet  but  happy  household  band, 
whose  counterpart  it  would  be  difficult  to  find. 
Bessie  was  delighted  to  be  amongst  them  once 
more,  and  her  pleasure  w^as  greatly  enhanced 
by  the  society  of  Emma,  who,  she  was  delight 
ed  to  find,  soon  took  a  strong  hold  upon  the  af 
fections  of  the  whole  family.  As  to  Herbert, 
her  face  seemed  to  have  a  strange  fascination 
for  him.  Unconscious  that  the  customs  of  polite 
life  forbid  too  eager  a  gaze  upon  another's  face, 
he  would  sit  with  his  eyes  fastened  upon  her 
countenance  until  she  would  have  been  thor 
oughly  abashed,  had  she  not  known  that  it  was 
the  simple  tribute  of  an  unaffected  admiration. 
The  light  had  returned  to  her  eye,  the  bloom 
to  her  cheek,  and  the  sunshine  of  happiness  to 
her  face,  and  Herbert  was  by  no  means  alone 
in  thinking  her  singularly  beautiful  and  attrac 
tive.  Interested  in  him,  through  Bessie,  long 
before  she  had  seen  him,  Emma  now  really 
enjoyed  his  society.  Her  youthful  imagination 
invested  him  with  a  thousand  charms,  which. 


268  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

under  other  circumstances,  and  in  a  better  con 
dition  of  Mfc,  he  would  not  have  possessed,  and 
the  still  unexplained  mystery  of  his  early  life, 
lent  a  romantic  tinge  to  his  character  which 
rendered  his  company  an  agreeable  variation 
from  the  dull  uniformity  of  ordinary  society. 

Asf  night  after  night,  they  sat  in  the  soft 
moonlight,  Bessie's  plans  for  the  future  were 
not  unfrequently  the  subject  of  conversation. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kennedy  proposed  for  her  a  pe 
riod  of  respite  and  relaxation,  an  interval  of 
rest  between  the  duties  of  the  school-girl  and 
the  toil  of  a  teacher's  life,  for  to  this  sphere  of 
usefulness  Bessie  had  consecrated  herself.  But 
she  determined  that  she  would  enter  immedi 
ately  upon  her  duties,  and  wished  to  instruct  a 
few  children  of  the  Church.  Many  more  schol 
ars  were  found  for  her  than  she  was  willing  to 

O 

take  charge  of;  the  arrangements  were  very 
soon  made,  and  every  thing  prepared  for  her 
school  to  open  with  the  Fall  session. 

The  weeks  flew  by  too  rapidly  for  all,  and  the 
pleasure  of  the  last  fortnight  was  sadly  marred 
by  the  anticipated  separation.  The  same  bright 
September  morning  that  saw  Bessie  inaugurated 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  *2t53 

into  her  new  duties,  saw,  also,  Emma  leave  for 
her  distant  home,  and  Willie  and  Herbert,  with 
sad  faces  and  sadder  hearts,  depart  from  the 
pleasant  home  circle,  whose  companionship  they 
had  so  much  enjoyed. 


23* 


170  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 


CHAPTER    XV. 


"How  shall  we  'scape  th'  overwhelming  Past? 

Cun  spirits  broken,  joys  o'ercast,     . 
And  eyes  that  never  more  may  smile, 
Can  these  the  avenging  bolt  delay, 
Or  win  us  back  one  little  day 
The  bitterness  of  death  to  soften  and  beguile?" 

KEBLE. 


TIIEEE  years  passed  away,  and  yet,  with  all 
their  changes,  they  glided  pleasantly  with  the 
Hector's  family.  Bessie,  who  had  at  first  under 
taken  to  teach  merely  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and 
because  she  was  conscientiously  opposed  to  lead 
ing  an  idle  and  a  useless  life,  had  now  become 
interested  in  her  employment,  was  warmly  at 
tached  to  many  of  her  scholars,  and  exercised 
an  influence  over  them  which  it  was  quite  sur 
prising  that  one  of  her  years  could  wield. 

Ilerbert  had  gone  to  the  mission-school,  and 
his  expenses  had  been  defrayed  by  the  united 
efforts  of  Bessie's  scholars  and  the  children  in 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  271 

the  Sunday-school,  assisted  by  occasional  hand 
Borne  donations,  sent  through  Emma,  who.  had 
continued  faithful  to  her  promise  of  endeavor 
ing  to  enlist  sympathy  and  assistance  for  him. 
His  teachers  gave  the  most  encouraging  accounts 
of  his  progress,  and  his  moral  and  religions  char 
acter  was  above  reproach.  His  warm  attachment 
to  Willie,  so  far  from  being  diminished  by  sep 
aration,  seemed  to  grow  with  his  growth  and 
strengthen  -with  his  strength.  His  first  letter 
v.as  addressed  to  "Willie,  and  they  had  corres 
ponded  regularly  ever  since  he  had  learned  to 
use  a  pen.  As  soon  as  he  could  express  his 
thoughts,  he  had  declared  his  intention  of  as 
sisting  Willie  in  teaching  and  Christianizing  his 
own  race,  and  to  this  determination  he  stead 
fastly  adhered.  To  this  one  great  object  all  his 
energies  were  devoted ;  it  was  always  before  his 
mind,  and  to  prepare  himself,  as  speedily  and  as 
thoroughly  as  possible,  for  this  great  work  seem 
ed  the  sole  aim  and  purpose  of  his  life.  The 
rapidity  of  his  progress  was  a  subject  of  great 
amazement  to  his  teachers,  and  they  frequently 
remarked,  with  surprise,  that  the  simple  religious 
truths  seemed  observed  by  his  mind,  rather  as 


272  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

something  whose  memory  was  revived  than  as 
a  thing  altogether  new  to  him. 

During  this  interval,  Emma  and  Bessie  had 
met  but  twice,  but  separation  did  not  weaken 
their  attachment.  They  corresponded  regularly, 
and  Emma,  with  that  child-like  confidence  in 
her  friend,  which  was  so  beautiful  a  character 
istic  of  their  early  intimacy,  still  continued  to 
lay  before  Bessie  all  her  doubts  and  troubles. 

Willie's  theological  course  was  ended ;  he  had 
been  ordained  a  deacon  of  the  Church,  and  he 
was  once  more  at  home,  his  young,  enthusiastic 
heart  bounding  with  eagerness  to  commence  the 
career  of  usefulness  marked  out  for  him. 

It  was  a  bright,  glorious  morning  in  the  early 
May,  smiling  in  sunshine  and  breathing  out  per 
fume  from  myriads  of  flowers.  From  the  early 
dawn  there  was  an  unusual  stir  in  the  village. 
Young  hearts  throbbed  with  mingled  pleasure 
and  pain ;  young  faces  wore  alternately  a  smile 
and  a  shadow ;  young  feet  hastened  hither  and 
thither  on  some  unaccustomed  errand  ;  and  busy 
young  fingers  twined  wreaths  of  roses  and  jessa 
mine  to  decorate  the  chancel  of  the  little  church. 
At  ten  o'clock  it  was  thronged.  The  girls  of 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  273 

Bessie's  school,  dressed  in  white,  and  wearing 
bridal  favors,  crowded  round  "the  chancel,  be 
fore  which  stood  Bessie  and  "Willie  to  be  united 
in  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony.  As  Mr.  Ken 
nedy  read  the  marriage-service,  his  voice  trem 
bled  and  his  eyes  filled  at  the  thought,  that  these 
words,  which  united  his  children  by  a  stronger 
and  holier  tie,  would,  in  a  measure,  sunder  the 
bond  which  bound  them  to  him,  and  send  them 
far  away  from  his  home  to  seek  theirs  in  an 
other  sphere  and  among  far  other  scenes  than 
those  of  his  quiet,  ministerial  life. 

Willie  had  earnestly  desired  to  go  first  alone 
to  the  scene  of  his  future  labors,  and  make  some 
provisions  for  Bessie's  comfort  before  taking  her 
there,  but  to  this  she  would  not  consent.  She 
had  been  taught  from  childhood  to  consult  duty 
instead  of  personal  comfort  and  pleasure,  and 
she  had  not  forgotten  her  mother's  lesson.  She 
knew  that  this  arrangement  would  delay  the 
commencement  of  Willie's  missionary  work,  and, 
therefore,  she  preferred  to  go  at  once  with  him, 
and  to  share  the  privations  and  hardships  which 
she  had  fully  realized,  beforehand,  as  entering 
largely  into  the  life  of  the  Indian  missionary's 


27-i  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

wife.  Ever  thoughtful  of  other  interests  besides 
her  own,  she  had  -not,  in  the  excitement  of  feel 
ing,  forgotten  to  provide  for  the  school  which  she 
was  so  soon  to  leave.  A  recent  letter  from  Mary 
Seymour  having  informed  her  that  her  relations 
with  the  "Walton  family  were  dissolved,  Lucy 
having  now  gone  to  Mr.  Lester's  school,  Bessie 
had  found  no  difficulty  in  securing  her  services, 
and  she  felt  assured  that  Mary  would  give  en 
tire  satisfaction.  She  had  already  been  assisting 
Bessie  to  teach,  five  or  six  weeks,  and  was  now 
prepared  to  take  her  place  and  carry  out  her 
plans  and  designs  in  the  school. 

Tears  flowed  plenteously  at  the  departure  of 
the  young  couple  for  their  distant  home,  and 
not  only  was  there  a  painful  vacuum  in  the 
Hector's  family  circle,  but  there  was  a  void  in 
the  Church,  in  the  Sunday-school,  in  the  vil 
lage  society,  in  Bessie's  school,  and  an  aching 
void  in  Mary  Seymour's  heart,  and,  as  she  press 
ed  Bessie  in  a  long  farewell  embrace,  she  whis 
pered  : — 

"  When  you  are  fairly  settled,  and  your  work 
begun,  and  you  wish  to  have  a  girls'  school  at 
tached  to  the  mission,  write  for  me,  and  I  will 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  275 

gladly  come,  and  do  any  thing  and  Lear  any 
thing  to  be  with  you." 

And  Bessie  promised  that  she  would. 

A  fatiguing  journey  brought  them  to  theii 
wilderness  home,  and  hearts  less  courageous  in 
the  performance  of  duty  would  have  sunk,  as 
the  Indian  village,  the  scene  of  their  future  la 
bors,  opened  upon  their  view.  Its  straggling 
huts,  miserable  and  comfortless,  decorated  with 
the  implements  of  the  chase  and  of  savage  war 
fare  ;  its  men  bedizzened  with  paint  and  feath 
ers,  strolling  idly  about,  or  reclining  at  full 
length  upon  the  grass  smoking  their  pipes;  its 
middle-aged  and  elderly  women  looking  worn 
and  jaded,  performing  both  the  household 
drudgery  and  the  labor  of  the  fields;  the  girls 
and  maidens  spending  their  time  in  beautifying 
their  persons  according  to  the  most  approved 
rules  of  savage  art,  that  they  might  attract  the 
admiration  of  the  youthful  hunters  and  war 
riors  ;  the  children,  wrretched  and  squalid,  amus 
ing  themselves  with  games  and  athletic  exercises 
calculated  to  develop  their  muscular  strength, 
and  interspersing  their  play  with  oaths  and  im 
precations,  with  quarrels  and  blows ;  all  these 


276  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

were  eights  and  sounds  well  calculated  to  pro 
duce  a  feeling  of  heart-sickness  in  those  who, 
young  and  inexperienced,  had  come  to  stein  this 
torrent  of  ignorance  and  vice,  and  to  transform 
this  people  into  an  industrious,  educated,  and 
religious  community. 

"Willie  stood  hesitating  a  moment,  and  trying 
to  determine  who  was  probably  the  most  dis 
tinguished  man  among  those  in  his  view,  that 
he  might  address  himself  to  him,  when  his  at 
tention  was  attracted  by  the  approach  of  a  de 
crepit  looking  woman  coming  rapidly  towards 
them.  The  nearer  she  came,  the  more  eager 
was  her  haste,  and  Willie  had  only  time  to  re 
mark  that  she  was  not  dressed  in  the  Indian 
costume,  but  in  a  poor  and  worn,  though  clean 
dress,  such  as  is  used  by  the  very  poorest  classes 
in  civilized  life.  She  finally  accelerated  her 
pace  almost  to  a  run,  and  as  she  reached  Bes 
sie,  she  threw  out  her  withered  arms,  and  clasp 
ing  her  in  a  tight  embrace,  startled  them  both 
by  exclaiming  in  the  English  tongue : — 

"God  bless. yon  for  coming  here!  Oh!  it  is 
such  a  long,  weary  time  since  I  have  looked 
upon  a  young,  happy  face. 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  277 

Exhausted  by  her  exertions,  the  old  woman 
sank  upon  the  grass,  and  when  the  young  stran 
gers  bent  kindly  over  her,  she  .motioned  them 
away,  and  presently  said,  in  a  feeble  voice : — 

"It  is  nothing;  it  will  soon  pass  off.  Do  not 
trouble  yourselves  about  an  old  woman,  who  hat 
not  for  long  years  received  a  kind  look  or  word, 
who  lives  alone,  and  will  have  to  die  alone." 

Willie  and  Bessie  seated  themselves  upon  the 
grass  beside  her,  and  a  crowd,  attracted  by  the 
scene,  gathered  round  in  mute  surprise  at  the 
presence  of  the  strangers. 

Willie  had  prepared  himself  for  his  work  by 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  language,  and  now 
requested  one  of  the  men  to  show  him  her  house, 
that  he  might  remove  her  there,  and  received 
in  reply  a  very  abrupt  and  emphatic,  though 
not  unkindly  meant,  "  There,"  accompanied  by  a 
gesture  towards  a  little  cabin  just  visible  through 
the  trees.  "Willie  then  requested  his  assistance 
in  carrying  her  home,  representing  her  inability 
to  get  there  alone,  but,  with  an  indescribable 
expression  of  scorn  at  the  thought  of  perform 
ing  so  servile  an  office  for  a  woman,  and  with 
a  most  contemptuous  "  Humph,"  the  lordly  sav 
24 


278  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

age  turned  his  Lack  and  talked  away.  The 
old  woman  then  arose,  and,  protesting  that  she 
was  fully  able  to  walk  alone,  and  rejecting  Y\'il- 
lie's  offered  arm,  she  bade  them  follow  her  as 
ehe  led  the  way  to  her  humble  home.  A  small 
cabin,  containing  two  rooms,  and  bearing  the 
impress  of  the  most  abject  poverty,  yet  scru 
pulously  clean  and  neat,  received  the  stranger 
guests,  and,  as  she  handed  Bessie  a  chair,  and 
motioned  Willie  to  a  seat  upon  a  rude  bench, 
she  welcomed  them  heartily  to  her  home,  and 
begged  that,  while  they  remained,  they  would 
make  it  theirs,  and  share  her  slender  comforts. 
She  then  threw  herself  upon  a  hard,  comfort 
less  bed,  and  seemed  disposed  to  rest  quietly. 

Willie  and  Bessie  had  now  the  opportunity 
to  scan  the  countenance  of  one  of  their  own 
race,  who  had  been  the  first  to  greet  them  at 
a  place  where  they  had  only  expected  to  see 
savage  faces  and  to  hear  savage  tongues,  and 
who  seemed  to  be  an  ancient  relic  of  civiliza 
tion,  strangely  out  of  place,  where  all  else  was 
thoroughly  barbarous.  Tier  hair  was  white ;  not 
only  white  as  silver,  but  it  was  positively  daz 
zling  in  its  whiteness,  and  her  countenance,  now 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  279 

that  her  eyes  (the  only  good  feature)  were  closed, 
was  intensely  ugly.  Plowed  and  furrowed  will 
alone  express  the  deep  wrinkles  that  marred  her 
face ;  her  complexion,  swarthy  and  sun-burnt, 
formed  a  painful  contrast  to  her  snow-white  hair, 
and  she  was  so  thin  that  the  outlines  of  her  face 
were  sharply  denned,  and  her  features  pinched 
and  compressed  almost  into -a  shadowy  tenuity. 
And  yet  a  calm,  peaceful  expression  resting  up 
on  that  face,  while  it  could  not  have  rendered 
it  beautiful,  might,  at  least,  have  so  softened  its 
ugliness  as  not  to  make  it  unpleasing  to  look 
upon ;  but  there  wras  no  such  expression  there. 
It  was  all  of  unrest,  disquiet  and  not  sorrow, 
that  is  too  mild  a  term,  but  deep,  abiding,  ever- 
preying  anguish  of  mind.  The  two  young  peo 
ple  gazed  intently  upon  her  face,  and  it  terrified 
them  to  think  what  a  weight  of  suffering  she 
must  have  borne  through  life,  how  fearful  must 
have  been  the  remorse  or  grief  which  had  thus 
left  its  life-long  impress  upon  her  countenance. 

All  at  once  she  started  up  and  said,  hur 
riedly  : 

"  Tell  me  where  you  are  going,  and  how  long 
you  will  stay  with  me ;  tell  me  if  you  will  read 


280  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

to  me  one,  only  one  chapter  from  the  Bible,  and 
only  one  prayer  from  the  Prayer  B'ook,  that  I 
may,  once  more  before  I  die,  hear  another  voice 
besides  my  own  pronounce  those  blessed  words." 

Simultaneously,  Willie  an-d  Bessie  arose  and 
went  to  the  bed,  and  standing  close  beside  her 
Willie  took  her  withered  hand  in  his,  and  said 
earnestly  arid  feelingly  : — 

"You  have,  then,  learned  to  love  ami  value 
the  Bible  and  Prayer  Book.  Thank  God  for 
this  much  of  comfort  an-d  sympathy  in  the  be 
ginning  of  my  laborious  work.  There  is,  indeed, 
a  strong  tie  uniting  us  to  you,  and  I  can  begin 
with  some  encouragement,  since  I  have  already 
found  one  to  whom  the  name  of  Saviour  is  not 
an  unknown  sound,  and  whose  ideas  of  heav 
enly  pleasure  are  not  limited  to  the  hunting- 
ground  and  the  chase.  We  have  come  to  live 
here.  This  is  to  be  our  home,  and  we  have 
consecrated  our  lives  to  the  moral  and  religious 
training  of  this  people." 

The  old  woman  answered  not  a  word,  but 
slowly  clasping  her  hands,  and  raising  her  eyes 
to  heaven,  she  said : — 

"  O  my  God,  Thou  knowest  all  things ;  Thou 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  281 

knowest  that  I  thank  Thee!  Once  more  to  hear 
.a  human  voice  read  the  words  of  thy  blessed 
Book ;  once  more  to  join  with  others  and  say, 
'Our  Father,'  is  so  much  more  happiness  than 
I  ever  expected  again  to  enjoy  in  this  world  ; 
so  much,  so  very  much  more  than  I  have  de 
served." 

Willie  waited  a  few  moments  and  then  ask 
ed  :- 

"How  long  have  you  been  among  this  peo 
ple?" 

"  Ever  since  I  was  of  the  age  of  that  child," 
replied  she,  pointing  to  Bessie. 

"  Uow  came  you  here ;  was  it  of  your  own 
choice  ?" 

"  O  no !  my  husband  became  a  fur-trader  and 
settled  here  for  the  better  prosecution  of  his 
business." 

"Is  he  still  living?"  asked  Willie. 

"No,  he  has  been   dead   these   many  years." 
She  paused  an  instant,  and  then  added,  with 
deep  sigh,    "I  have  suffered  much  and   deeply 
since  I  have  lived  here,  and  I  have  deserved  it 
all." 

Her    listeners    needed   but  to   look   upon   her 
24* 


282  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

face,  to  realize  the  truth  that  she  had  most 
deeply  suffered,  but  the  last  sentence  she  had. 
spoken  made  them  feel  that  they  were,  perhaps, 
verging  upon  delicate  ground  in  awakening  re 
miniscences  of  her  past  life,  so  they  a^kcd  no 
more  questions. 

A  very  frugal  supper  was  their  only  rei'ro.-h- 
ment  after  their  fatiguing  journey,  and  imme 
diately  afterwards  they  had  prayers,  and  the 
tone  of  deep,  earnest  enjoyment  witli  which  the 
aged  woman  united  her  voice  with  theirs  in  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  went  directly  to  the  hearts  of 
her  young  guests,  and  they  felt  that  they  were 
already  beginning  to  experience  somewhat  of 

the  pleasure  of  doing  good,  and  of  being  a  com- 

• 
fort  to  others. 

Willie  had  been  furnished  by  Christian  friends 
with  money  for  the  erection  of  a  plain  school 
room,  which  was  also  to  be  used  at  present  for 
the  Sunday  service;  and  immediately  after  break 
fast,  the  next  morning,  he  went  out  to  look  for  a 
pleasant  site  for  the  building,  and  to  see  if  he 
could  not  engage  as  scholars,  some  of  the  many 
children  whom  he  saw  every  where  around  him. 
1.15s  hostess  had  told  him  that  she  had  faithfully 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  283. 

endeavored,  in  an  humble  way,  to  teach  some 
of  them,  but  as  she  was  a  woman,  she  was 
treated  with  great  contempt  by  the  men,  regard 
ed  by  her  own  sex  as  a  kind  of  witch,  and 
looked  upon  as  an  object  of  scorn  by  the  boys, 
so  that  all  her  efforts  to  do  good  had  been 
limited  to  a  few  girls,  who  came  very  irregular 
ly,  and  seemed  but  little  interested  in  her  in 
structions. 

During  Willie's  •  absence  Bessie  had,  for  the 
first  time  since  her  marriage,  an  interval  of  sol 
itude  in  which  to  reflect  upon  her  future  pros 
pects.  She  had  thought  much  and  long  before 
taking  that  step,  and  had  tried  very  hard  to 
realize  that  she  was  voluntarily  entering  upon 
a  life  of  much  privation,  self-denial,  and  toil ; 
but  it  had  then  all  been  prospective,  and  she 
had  been  cheered  by  the  anticipation  of  that 
pure  satisfaction  and  pleasure  which  a  conscien 
tious  discharge  of  duty,  and  a  voluntary  sacrifice 
of  self  for  the  good  of  others,  must  ever  bring. 
She  had  now  arrived  at  the  scene  of  her  labors ; 
the  hardship  was  no  longer  prospective,  it  had 
really  begun,  while,  as  yet,  she  had  reaped  none 
of  the  pleasant  fruits  of  her  self-denial,  and  in 


BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

the  utter  absence  of  every  comfort  of  civilized 
life,  and  of  every  human  being,  except  her  hue- 
band,  with  whom  she  could  exchange  a  common 
thought,  she  was  already  having  a  foretaste  of 
the  life  which  she  had  chosen.  She  did  not  re 
gret  her  choice ;  deliberately  and  voluntarily  she 
had  consecrated  herself  to  this  service,  and  de 
votedly  attached  to  him  whom  her  young  heart 
had  chosen  as  the  companion  of  her  life,  she 
was  still  as  willing  as  ever  to  share  with  him 
the  allotments  of  Providence ;  but  Bessie,  though 
an  earnest-minded  Christian  and  a  loving  wife, 
was  still  a  human  being,  and  there  was  enough 
around  her  to  make  her  feel  lonely  and  sad. 
Longing  to  look  upon  some  familiar  face,  she 
went  to  her  trunk  and  took  out  the  three  min 
iatures,  in  whose  silent  companionship  she  ex 
pected  hereafter  often  to  find  comfort  and  pleas 
ure.  In  a  few  moments,  father,  mother,  and  her 
old  grandfather  were  again  before  her,  but,  of 
the  three,  she  alone  knew  her  mother,  and  lay 
ing  the  others  open  upon  the  table,  she  leaned 
her  head  upon  her  hand,  and,  forgetful  of  every 
thing  around  her,  she  was  at  once  absorbed  in 
studying  those  features  whose  every  outline  and 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  285 

expression  were  so  indelibly  engraved  upon  her 
heart. 

A  quiet  step  behind  her  was  unheard.  A 
scream :  "  God  of  mercy !  where  did  you  get 
my  father's  picture  ?"  a  grasp  at  the  miniature 
and  a  heavy  fall  followed  in  such  rapid  succes 
sion,  that  when  Bessie  was  sufficiently  recovered 
to  move  or  think,  she  saw  behind  her  on  the  floor 
the  extended  form  of  her  aged  hostess,  grasping 
in  her  rigid  hand  that  picture,  the  very  posses 
sion  of  which  had  deprived  her  of  the  power 
to  enjoy  it.  Startled  and  bewildered,  Bessie  at 
first  knew  not  what  to  do,  but  in  a  few  moments 
her  self-possession  returned,  and  she  tried  every 
means  to  restore  consciousness,  but  in  vain.  She 
then  attempted  to  raise  the  prostrate  form,  but 
her  strength  was  inadequate  to  the  task,  and 
now  seriously  alarmed,  she  ran  to  the  door,  and 
seeing  Willie  in  the  distance,  her  uplifted  voice 
of  distress  and  entreaty  brought  him  quickly  to 
her  side,  and  in  a  little  while  the  aged  woman 
was  laid  gently  upon  her  bed.  But  Willie's  ef 
forts  to  revive  her  were  as  unavailing  as  Bessie's. 
She  lay  like  one  dead,  except  that  her  clenched 
hand  never  relaxed  its  grasp  upon  that  picture, 


286  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

whose  mild,  gentle  eyes  and  soft,  silvered  hah 
seemed  to  have  the  strange  power  to  freeze  the 
very  life-blood  in  her  veins.  At  last,  exhausted 
and  hopeless,  Bessie  sank  down  in  a  chair  and 
gazed  in  silent  horror  upon  that  wrinkled  coun 
tenance,  on  which  was  stamped  an  expression 
of  agony  which  it  was  fearful  to  behold ;  and, 
as  she  gazed,  there  stole  into  her  memory  what 
Mre.  Kennedy  had  said  was  her  mother's  descrip 
tion  of  Jennie  Herbert's  face  during  those  long 
hours  of  unconsciousness,  while  the  remorse  of 
the  soul  was  writing  its  fearful  accusations  in 
living  characters  upon  the  features. 

Bessie's  very  heart  stood  still  with  fear,  for 
her  imagination  had  never  conceived  it  possible 
for  any  being  living  on  this  side  the  world  of 
despair  to  wear  such  an  expression  of  writhing 
torture,  and  it  was  all  the  more  terrible  because 
the  conflict  raged  within,  in  the  deep  chambers 
of  the  soul,  while  not  a  muscle  or  fibre  of  the 
external  frame  moved :  the  body  seemed  petri- 
iied  with  absolute  horror  at  the  sight  of  the  fear 
ful  tempest  of  the  soul. 

At  length  Willie,  like  Bessie,  ceased  his  nse- 
luss  efforts,  and  sat  down  beside  her  to  sec  her 


UESSIE    MELVILLE.  287 

die.  lie  asked  no  questions ;  lie  knew  that  there 
must  be  some  fearful  mystery,  but  be  thought 
that  a  dying  chamber,  the  very  threshold  of 
eternity,  was  no  place  for  its  solution.  Slowly 
passed  the  hours  of  this  their  first  day  upon  mis 
sionary  ground;  and  strange  seemed  to  Willie 
the  probability  that  the  first  holy  words  which 
he  should  utter  in  the  ears  of  this  barbarous 
people,  would  be  the  Burial  Service  over  one 
who,  in  this  heathen  wilderness,  was  no  stranger 
to  the  promises  of  God  and  the  comforts  of  his 
Church.  Silently,  almost  breathlessly,  he  and 
Bessie  watched  the  quiet  form.'  There  was  no 
heaving  of  the  bosom ;  a  feeble  pulse,  and  a 
slow,  almost  imperceptible  heart-throb,  alone  be 
tokened  life. 


288  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Ob !  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below, 
To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  such  wo  1" 

HEMAXS. 

MORNING  wore  away  into  noon,  and  noon  into 
the  deepening  shades  of  evening,  before  there 
was  the  slightest  movement  of  the  prostrate  fig 
ure  which  they  so  closely  watched.  At  length 
she  slightly  stirred,  and  then,  as  though  startled 
by  an  electric  touch,  she  sat  upright  in  her  bed, 
and  with  an  irresistible  fascination  fixed  her  star 
ing  eyes  upon  the  picture  which  she  still  held 
in  her  hand.  There  was  no  gradual  awakening 
to  a  sense  of  what  was  around  her,  no  effort  to 
recall  her  wandering  senses,  but  with  a  sudden 
bound  her  consciousness  returned,  and,  with  eyes 
almost  bursting  from  their  sockets,  she  seemed 
drinking  into  her  very  soul  a  sight  which  was 
.ikely  to  drive  her  mad.  The  two  young  people 
knew  not  what  to  do.  If  it  had  been  terrible 
to  look  upon  her  with  all  her  powers  of  soul 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  289 

and  body  locked  in  profound  unconsciousness, 
it  was  yet  more  fearful  to  see  her  in  full  pos 
session  of  her  faculties,  and  they  gazed  upon 
her  now  with  the  same  hopeless  impotency  with 
which  they  would  have  looked  upon  a  raving 
maniac. 

At  length,  a  sudden  thought  seized  Bessie, 
and  springing  from  her  seat,  in  an  instant  she 
had  placed  over  her  grandfather's  miniature  the 
picture  of  her  mother,  so  that  the  strained  vis 
ion  of  the  aged  woman  now  took  ill  the  beauti 
ful  features  of  youth  and  innocence.  The  result 
proved  as  Bessie  had  desired.  For  an  instant 
she  gazed,  as  at  first,  with  eyes  staring  fearfully 
wild,  but  then,  as  soft  holy  memories  of  early 
childhood,  her  sister,  her  home,  stole  over  her, 
the  poor  aged  heart,  so  wrung  by  remorse  and 
anguish,  was  subdued.  She  pressed  the  picture 
to  her  lips,  and  murmured,  "My  own  precious 
twin-sister;"  the  dry  eyes  were  moistened,  and 
then  came  a  rushing  torrent  of  tears,  prostra 
ting  in  their  violence,  but  leaving  the  soul  soft 
ened  and  subdued  instead  of  tumultuous  and 
agonized.  The  storm  was  over,  and  sobbing 
like  a  chastened  child,  the  old  woman  lay  with 
25 


290  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

her  bead  buried  in  ber  pillow.  Bessie  felt  in 
finitely  relieved  to  see  ber  tbus.  For  a  while 
she  left  her  undisturbed,  and  then  she  went  up 
to  her  bedside,  and,  leaning  her  cheek  ogaiu.-t 
that  old  and  withered  face,  wiped  away  the 
tears  and  gently  stroked  back  the  wildly  disor 
dered  hair.  The  kind  touch  seemed  to  recall 
her  to  the  fact  that  she  was  not  *alone,  and  start 
ing  up  she  hurriedly  exclaimed,  with  a  return 
ing  gleam  of  wildness  in  her  eye,  "Who  is 
this  ?"  but  when  she  saw  Bessie's  face,  she  re 
membered  her  young  guest,  and  muttering  "  Oh 
yes;  I  remember  now,"  sank  back  again  upon 
the  bed. 

Bessie  now  gently  whispered,  "Aunt  Jennie;" 
and  again  she  started,  \and  turning  over,  fixed 
an  eager,  passionate  gaze  upon  Bessie's  face,  as 
she  continued : — 

"  I  am  Bessie  Melville,  your  own  niece,  daugh 
ter  of  that  twin-sister,  Mary  Ilerbert,  whose  pic 
ture  you  hold  in  your  hand. 

"With  a  piercing  scream,  the  old  woman  leaped 
upon  the  floor,  and,  seizing  Bessie,  clasped  her 
in  a  smothering  embrace,  and  held  her  close  to 
her  heart,  whose  throbbiugs  Bessie  could  dis- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  291 

tinctly  hear.  She  then  relaxed  her  grasp,  and 
sinking  upon  her  knees,  while  another  rush  of 
tears  blinded  her  eyes  and  choked  her  voice, 
she  poured  out  a  thanksgiving  so  broken  by 
sobs  that  Willie  and  Bessie  could  only  hear 
the  words:  "I  thank  Thee  that  thou  hast  sent 
another  child  to  fill  up  the  heart  of  the  poor, 
old,  childless  rnother." 

It  could  scarcely  be  called  a  joyous  meeting 
of  the  aunt  and  niece,  in  that  wilderness  home 
Days  afterwards,  when  the  fierce  tempest  of 
feeling  was  lulled,  and  they  had  had  long  con 
versations,  they  began  to  realize  the  pleasure 
of  the  tie  that  bound  them  together,  in  a  coun 
try  where  all  else  was  wild  and  savage ;  but  as 
yet  there  was  too  much  of  excitement  and  unre 
ality,  it  seemed  too  much  like  a  dream,  and 
neither  of  the  three  was  able  to  analyze  the 
feelings  of  the  moment,  They  were  only  con 
scious  of  strangely  mingled  emotions,  of  which 
pleasure  was  one,  but  so  blended  with  others  as 
to  be  scarcely  distinguishable. 

The  next  morning  found  Aunt  Jennie  so  weak 
and  prostrate  that  she  could  riot  leave  her  bed, 
and  as  soon  after  breakfast  as  "Willie  had  gone, 


292  BKSSIE     MELVILLE. 

she  called  Bessie,  and  seating  her  on  the  bed 
beside  her,  questioned  her  earnestly  and  elosely 
about  her  mother  and  her  early  home.  Eagerly 
did  Bessie  enter  upon  the  theme,  and  her  eye 
sparkled  with  pleasure  as  she  poured  into  the 
ear  of  her  listener  an  account  of  her  childhood 
How  did  the  heart  of  the  aged  aunt  melt  with 
tenderness  at  the  recital  of  the  death-bed  scene 
of  her  little  name-sake,  and  only  once  she  inter 
rupted  Bessie  as  she  described  the  lovely  Chris 
tian  character  of  this  little  child,  and  that  was 
to  say :  "  She  ought  never  to  have  been  called 
for  me ;  she  should  have  been  named  for  her 
mother." 

It  was  a  sad  tale  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  of 
remorse  and  penitence,  which  Bessie's  aunt  re 
lated  to  her.  The  incidents  of  her  early  life 
had  been  minutely  and  faithfully  detailed  to 
Bessie  by  Mrs.  Kennedy,  and  Aunt  Jennie  found 
that  every  circumstance  was  deeply  engraved 
upon  the  memory  of  her  young  listener.  As  to 
the  events  of  her  maturer  life,  the  old  and  worn 
letter  which  Bessie  had  found,  and  which  her 
aunt  immediately  recognized  as  the  last  one  she 
had  written  to  her  sister,  was  a  faithful  picture 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  293 

of  the  whole.  She  had  but  little  to  tell  which 
Bessie  did  not  already  know,  except  that  the 
little  daughter  to  whom  she  had  alluded  in  this 
letter,  had  been  taken  from  her  at  the  age  of 
three  years,  and  carried  by  her  father  to  his  re 
lations  in  one  of  the  Atlantic  states,  to  be  reared 
and  educated,  but  where  she  did  not  know. 

"Aunt  Jennie,"  asked  Bessie,  "what  became 
of  your  little  Herbert?  I  have  thought  very 
often  of  that  child  since  I  first  read  your  letter, 
and  have  always  felt  a  sort  of  quiet  assurance 
that  your  prayers  for  him  would  be  answered, 
and  your  consecration  of  him  accepted." 

"  Alas !  my  child,  I,  too,  for  a  long  time  fed 
my  heart  upon  just  such  a  hope  as  this.  I 
know  that  our  Father  is  a  prayer-hearing  God, 
and  always,  until  in  my  own  case,  I  have  be 
lieved  that  an  honest  and  entire  consecration 
of  a  child  to  the  service  of  God  in  Holy  Bap 
tism,  would  be  accepted.  And  I  still  believe 
that  such  a  consecration  from  any  other  heart 
than  mine  would  have  met  with  a  gracious  ac 
ceptance.  I  deserved  the  refusal.  "Wicked,  re 
bellious  child  that  I  was,  what  right  had  I  to 
expect  that  my  child  would  ever  be  a  comfort 
25* 


294  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

to  me  ?  Oh,  Bessie !  you  do  not,  you  cannot 
know,  the  enormity  of  my  sin." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  added  :— 

"This  has  been  tho  very  bitterest  ingredient 
in  my  cup  of  sorrow.  If  I  know  my  own  heart, 
I  was  sincere  when  I  offered  my  child  to  my 
Saviour's  service,  and  when,  like  Cain,  my  offer 
ing  was  rejected,  I  felt  literally  like  an  outcast 
and  a  fugitive,  forsaken  of  God  and  man,  and, 
like  that  wretched  wanderer,  my  heart  has  often 
uttered  the  bitter  cry :  '  My  punishment  is  greater 
than  I  can  bear.'" 

"But,  aunt,  what  reason  have  you  to  believe 
that  your  offering  was  not  accepted?" 

"I  waited  long,  my  child,  and  struggled  hard 
against  the  conviction,  but  long,  long  years  ago, 
it  was  forced  upon  my  unwilling  mind.  I  told 
your  mother,  in  this  letter,  that  his  father  had 
placed  him  in  the  household  of  the  Indian  chief. 
He  remained  there  one  year,  and  at  intervals  I 
continued,  by  stealth,  to  snatch  short  interviews 
with  him,  and  spent  all  the  time  I  was  with 
him  in  impressing  upon  his  infant  mind  the 
leading  Gospel  truths,  hoping  to  interpose  some 
thing  of  a  barrier,  however  feeble,  to  the  floods 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  295 

of  vice  and  superstition  which  I  well  knew  would 
overflow  his  soul.  I  taught  him  every  word  of 
the  Creed  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  it  was 
the  sweetest  music  to  my  ear  to  hear  him  lisp 
those  holy  words.  At  length  I  was  discovered, 
and,  of  course,  received  a  torrent  of  abuse  and 
severe  threats  if  I  ever  attempted  this  again ; 
but  a  mother  is  not  easily  daunted.  I  did  see 
my  child  again,  and  was  again  discovered,  and 
was  then  told  that  with  the  morrow's  dawn  a 
separation  would  be  effected  which  would  ut 
terly  defy  all  attempts  at  reunion,  and  would 
be  life  long  in  its  duration.  Half  frantic  with 
agony,  I  knew  not  what  to  do.  On  my  knees  I 
pleaded  and  entreated  for  my  child,  and  when  I 
arose  from  that  long  prayer,  sinner  that  I  was, 
I  felt  something  akin  to  assurance,  and  believed 
that  God  would  eventually  work  out  for  me  my 
desires  and  hopes  with  regard  to  that  child.  I 
folded  up,  in  a  small  bundle,  a  few  remaining 
clothes  which  I  had  retained  in  my  possession, 
some  of  the  smallest  of  his  playthings,  and,  in 
the  centre  of  the  package,  I  placed  something 
that  I  valued  as  much  as  my  own  life,  a  little 
old  Prayer  Book,  which  my  father  gave  me, 


296  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

with  a  Bible  bound  like  it,  on  my  tenth  birth 
day.  lie  gave  both  books  to  your  mother  also ; 
the  size  and  type  were  exactly  alike,  the  bind 
ing  was  slightly  different." 

"  I  have  my  mother's  now,"  replied  Bessie, 
"  and,  next  to  her  miniature,  value  them  more 
than  any  thing  else.  All  that  my  sister  and  my 
self  ever  learned  of  the  Prayer  Book  and  the 
Church,  our  mother  taught  us  from  that  little 
volume,  which  always  found  a  place  in  her 
work-basket." 

She  went  to  her  room  and  brought  the  two 
small  books,  and  placed  them  in  her  aunt's 
hand. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  eagerly  seizing  them,  "the 
very  same!  I  remember,  as  if  it  were  yester 
day,  the  very  expression  of  my  father's  counte 
nance  when  he  placed  those  books  in  our  hamK 
and  told  us  that  he  wanted  us  always  to  keep 
them,  faithfully  to  study  them,  and  to  love  and 
reverence  them  more  than  all  other  books  in 
the  world  besides." 

"But,  aunt,  you  have  not  told  me  what  you 
did  with  the  bundle  after  you  had  made  it  up. 
How  did  you  get  it  to  Herbert?" 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  297 

"I  paid  a  very  heavy  bribe  to  one  of  the 
Indian  servants  of  the  chief's  household,  and 
she  faithfully  promised  that  this  package  should 
go  with  him  wherever  he  went.  "Whether  or  not 
she  kept  her  word  I  have  no  means  of  know 
ing,  except  her  own  assurance.  Since  then  I 
have  never  heard  one  \vord  from  my  little  boy. 
Childhood  is  gone,  youth  has  passed  away,  and 
he  has  entered  upon  manhood,  and  you  will  ac 
knowledge  that  there  is  ample  room  for  gloomy 
conjectures,  and  sufficient  reason  for  believing 
that  a  prayer-hearing  God  could  not  accept  the 
petition  of  a  sinner  such  as  I  am.  Herbert  was 
four  years  old  when  I  saw  him  last,  and  twenty 
dreary,  lonely  years  have  passed  since  that 
day." 

Bessie  was  saddened  by  her  aunt's  tone  and 
nianner  of  utter  hopelessness,  and  felt  herself 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  scarcely  any  hu 
man  faith  could  have  survived  such  long-con 
tinued  discouragements,  and  her  own  faint  but 
long-cherished  hopes  with  regard  to  Herbert 
were  now,  by  these  words,  entirely  extinguished. 

At  last  she  said  in  a  faint  voice,  strangely  in 
consistent  wTith  her  words  of  encouragement : — 


298  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"Tiy,  dear  aunt,  not  to  be  utterly  hopeless. 
Do  you  not  remember  that  one  of  the  hymns  in 
the  Prayer  Book  says : 

'God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform." 

It  seems  most  improbable,  it  is  true,  that  amid 
all  these  adverse  circumstances,  the  child  whom 
in  baptism  you  dedicated  to  the  work  of  an  In 
dian  missionary,  should  ever  fulfil  that  destiny, 
but  with  God  nothing  is  impossible." 

While  Bessie  thus  comforted  her  aunt,  she 
thought  of  Willie's  friend,  the  Indian  in  every 
thing  save  his  Christian  belief  and  prayer;  but 
the  thought  was  too  dim,  and  confused,  and  in 
distinct,  even  to  take  the  form  of  hope,  and  she 
dared  not  indulge  any  such  idea  upon  such  slen 
der  foundations.  She  was  for  an  instant  plunged, 
in  thought  so  deep,  that  she  did  not  hear  the 
first  words  of  her  aunt's  reply.  When  her  at 
tention  was  again  aroused,  Aunt  Jennie  was 
saying : — 

"  !N"o,  my  child,  all  hope  is  utterly  and  for 
ever  dead,  and  I  find  this  rest  of  hopeless  cer 
tainty  infinitely  preferable  to  that  state  of  long- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  299 

mg  anxiety  to  which  I  was  so  long  a  prey. 
Bitterly  have  I  learned  the  depth  of  meaning 
contained  in  those  inspired  words,  'Hope  de 
ferred  maketh  the  heart  sick.'" 

Bessie  said  no  more,  for  she  felt  that  she  had 
no  more  comfort  to  offer,  so  she  asked  after  the 
little  infant  spoken  of  in  the  letter,  who  was 
called  Mary  for  her  mother. 

"  I  have  already  told  yon,  Bessie,  almost  all 
that  1  myself  know  of  my  little  daughter.  She 
was  taken  from  me  when  three  years  old,  and 
carried  to  my  husband's  sister,  of  whom  I  know 
nothing,  except  that  she  was  childless,  and 
would  most  probably  rear  my  child  in  the  midst 
of  a  Christian  community,  and  surrounded  on 
every  side  by  churches,  without  instilling  into 
her  heart  any  more  deep  religious  principle  than 
would  be  done  by  any  Indian  mother  in  this 
village." 

"Why,  aunt,"  exclaimed  Bessie,  "what  kind 
of  a  woman  can  she  be?  "Who  gave  you  such 
an  idea  of  her?" 

"  Her  brother,  my  husband,  Bessie,  told  me  all 
that  I  know  of  her  character.  Himself  utterly 
regardless  of  the  sanctions  of  religion,  he  rather 


300  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

deemed  it  an  evidence  of  strong  intellect  in  a 
woman  thus  to  rise  superior  to  what  he  chose 
to  call  the  '  trammels  of  superstition.' " 

"O,  aunt!"  exclaimed  Bessie,  in  horror  and 
amazement,  and  with  her  usual  impetuosity  giv 
ing  utterance  to  the  words  without  pausing  to 
think,  "  how  could  you,  my  grandfather's  child, 
my  mother's  sister,  how  could  you  marry  such 
a  man?" 

In  an  instant  she  would  have  given  worlds  to 
have  been  able  to  recall  the  words,  but  it  was 
too  late.  She  was  startled  to  see  once  more 
that  fierce,  writhing  expression  of  remorse  which 
she  had  seen  only  once  upon  her  aunt's  face, 
but  which  she  could  never  forget.  Its  impress 
was  always  there  saddening  and  disfiguring  her 
countenance,  but  only  once  before  had  she  seen 
it  aroused  into  wild  and  furious  action. 

It  was  many  minutes  before  the  amazed  and 
distressed  Bessie  received  an  answer  to  her 
question.  Bent  beneath  the  weight  of  agony 
which  these  words  awakened,  her  aunt  swayed 
to  and  fro  in  her  chair,  and  deep  heart-rending 
groans  burst  from  her  lips.  At  length  she  re 
gained  sufficient  self-control  to  be  able  to  speak, 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  801 

and  turning  sharply  round  to  her  niece,  sho 
looked  at  her  with  an  expression  which  curdled 
the  blood  in  Bessie's  veins,  and  in  a  low,  sup 
pressed,  but  fearfully  distinct  whisper  she  re 
plied  : — 

"  I  married  him  against  my  father's  wishes, 
because  I  was  a  wayward,  rebellious,  ungrateful 
child.  I  left  home  in  the  way  I  did,  and  broke 
my  poor  old  father's  heart,  because  I  was  a 
cold,  selfish,  heartless  fiend !  ~No  wonder  that 
such  a  child  should  have  lived  to  be  a  suffer 
ing,  childless  mother!  A  God  of  justice  could 
scarcely  have  ordered  it  otherwise." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her 
whole  frame  trembled,  and  for  a  long  time  the 
two  sat  in  unbroken  silence ;  one  terrified  at  the 
tempest  she  had  thoughtlessly  awakened,  the 
other  a  prey  to  its  fury. 

At  length  the  violence  of  feeling  had  par 
tially  exhausted  itself,  and  as  her  aunt  looked 
up  once  more,  Bessie  saw  that  the  frantic  ex 
pression  of  the  eye  had  softened  into  one  of  the 
deepest  sadness,  and  in  a  tone  of  mingled  peni 
tence  and  self-reproach  which  almost  broke  Bes 
sie's  heart,  Aunt  Jennie  said  : — 
2G 


302  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

"  I  hear  it,  my  child,  always.  In  every  song 
of  the  birds,  in  every  breeze  that  stirs  the 
branches,  in  every  falling  leaf,  is  sounded  in 
my  ears  that  broken  commandment: — 

" '  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother  that  thy 
days  may  be  long  in  the  land  which  the  Lord 
thy  God  giveth  thee.' 

"Sometimes,  in  the  soft  night-breeze,  it  comes 
to  me  like  a  reproachful  voice  from  the  spirit- 
world,  and  then,  again,  in  the  rushing  storm  it 
is  thundered  in  my  ears,  as  with  the  voice  of 
an  avenging  God.  Always,  everywhere,  in  all 
circumstances,  awake  or  asleep,  rings  the  com 
mand  in  my  ears,  and  every  thing  says  to  me, 
'Honor  thy  father!'  Oh,  Bessie!  it  is  a  fear 
ful  thing  always  to  carry  in  your  breast  an  ac 
cusing  spirit,  always  to  feel  the  gnawings  of  a 
remorse  from  which  there  is  no  escape !"  and  the 
wild  expression  returned  as  she  added — "I  have 
had  a  foretaste  of  the  torments  of  the  lost !" 

With  a  sudden  bound  she  sprang  from  her 
chair  and  rushed  into  the  adjoining  room,  and 
the  slight  partition  could  not  shut  out  the 
sound,  as  she  threw  herself  upon  her  knees, 
and  prayed  long  and  earnestly. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  303 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

It  is,  it  is  my  child!     Oh!  let  me  go 

That  I  may  once  more  press  him  to  my  heart, 

And  look  at  him,  and  touch  him,  t'  assure 

Myself  that  it  is  be,  and  then  1  will 

Just  lay  me  down  and  die! 

THEY  had  been  two  weeks  at  their  new  home. 
Already  Willie  had  begun  his  work  of  teach 
ing,  and  a  school,  which  varied  in  scholars  as 
well  as  numbers  almost  every  day,  was  assem 
bled  under  the  trees  for  two  hours  every  morn 
ing.  He  found  that  the  various  expedients  and 
devices  to  which  he  had  been  obliged  to  resort 
in  instructing  Herbert,  and  the  patience  he  had 
been  compelled  to  exercise  with  him,  would  be 
an  invaluable  lesson  to  him  in  his  present  work; 
ttnd  instead  of  becoming  disheartened  at  finding 
that,  when  the  novelty  had  worn  off,  his  schol 
ars  were  continually  becoming  wearied  and  leav 
ing  the  school,  his  past  experience  had  taught 


304  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

him  that  the  labor  and  the  fruits  arc  by 
no  means  simultaneous;  that  "the  husbandman 
waiteth  for  the  precious  fruit  of  the  earth,  and 
hath  long  patience  for  it ;"  and  so  he  deti  r- 
mined  to  work  faithfully,  and  wait  patiently. 
Every  morning  and  evening  he  read  the  Ser 
vice  under  the  shade  of  a  majestic  oak,  which 
stood  just  in.  the  centre  of  the  village.  Some 
times  a  few  Indians  strolled  up  to  the  place 
and  gazed  idly  around  for  a  little  while,  nnd 
then  walked  away,  and  sometimes  he  and  ]!>  - 
sie,  and  Aunt  Jennie,  formed  the  entire  con 
gregation,  but  they  alone  were  enough  to  com 
plete  the  number  of  "two  or  three"  to  whom  a 
blessing  is  promised ;  and  Aunt  Jennie's  hearty 
"Amen,"  which  seemed  to  come  from  "heart. 
and  soul,  and  mind,  and  strength,"  would  have 
made  the  service  delightful,  even  if  it  had  not 
been  refreshing  and  sustaining  to  the  souls  of 
the  two  other  worshippers. 

Willie  and  Bessie  were  now  becoming  exceed 
ingly   anxious   about  letters    frojp   home.     They 
longed  for   that   "good   news  from  a  far  coun- 
ieh  is,  in  the  striking  language  of  Scrip 
ture-,   "like   C"1<1   waters  to  a  thirsty  soul."     The 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  "  305 

nearest  post-office  was  ten.  miles  distant,  and 
there  was  no  way  for  Willie  to  get  his  letters 
without  going  himself  for  them.  He  waited  un 
til  he  thought  he  had  allowed  sufficient  time 
for  delays  in  the  mails,  and  for  all  other  contin 
gencies,  and  until  he  read  in  Bessie's  counte 
nance  that  she  could  wait  no  longer,  when  one 
morning  he  announced  his  determination  of  go 
ing  to  see  if  there  were  any  letters.  He  con 
sulted  Aunt  Jennie  as  to  the  mode  of  convey 
ance,  which  speedily  resolved  itself  into  a  choice 
between  walking  the  ten  miles,  and  pressing 
into  service  one  of  the  many  small  Indian  po 
nies  which  were  grazing  in  and  around  the  vil 
lage  wherever  they  could  find  the  green  sward. 
He  asked  to  whom  he  should  apply  for  the  use 
of  one  of  these  animals,  and  she  told  him  to  gG 
and  take  any  one  he  chose,  but  if  his  civilized 
notions  of  the  rights  of  property  forbade  this, 
he  might  ask  permission  of  the  first  man  that 
he  met.  Willie  preferred  the  latter,  and  was 
soon  ready  to  go,  having  secured  as  a  guide 
through  the  woods,  one  of  his  little  scholars 
mounted  like  himself. 

About  sunset,  Aunt  Jennie  and  Bessie  walked 


306  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

out  into  the  woods  to  meet  Willie.  Bessie's  im 
patience  could  brook  no  longer  delay,  and  if,  as 
her  aunt  had  suggested,  Willie  should  after  all 
return  without  any  letters,  she  felt  that  the  dis 
appointment  would  be  greater  than  she  could 
bear.  They  had  not  gone  very  far,  before  they 
saw,  in -the  distance,  Willie  and  his  guide  ad 
vancing  rapidly  towards  them,  and  as  soon  as  he 
recognized  them,  Willie  waved  his  hat  around 
his  head,  and  greeted  them  with  a  cheerful 
shout,  which  assured  Bessie  that  he  had  been 
successful.  The  four  were  soon  sitting  together 
upon  the  grass  under  a  tree.  Willie  and  Bes 
sie,  Aunt  Jennie,  who  was  happy  in  seeing  them 
so  much  delighted,  and  the  Indian  boy,  whose 
eyes  gleamed  with  eager  curiosity  to  see  the 
contents  of  that  package  which  gave  so  much 
satisfaction,  and  whose  countenance  expressed 
the  blankest  disappointment  when  the  bundle 
was  opened  and  he  saw  nothing  but  pieces  of 
paper  with  black  marks  all  over  them. 

There  were  four  letters — one  from  home,  a 
sort  of  family  newspaper,  containing  every  event, 
however  insignificant,  which  had  transpired  since 
the  morning  of  their  departure,  and  to  which 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  307 

each  member  of  tlie  family  had  contributed. 
The  second  was  a  long  letter  from  Mary  Sey 
mour,  full  of  affection  and  Christian  sympathy, 
and  charging  Bessie  not  to  forget  her  promise, 
that  she  should  make  one  of  their  little  mis 
sionary  band  so  soon  as  an  assistant  teacher  was 
needed.  The  next  was  a  letter  from  Emma, 
telling  Bessie  of  her  engagement  to  a  young 
man,  who,  according  to  her  own  account,  was  in 
every  way  worthy  of  her,  and  whom,  in  the  glow 
of  her  young  aifection,  she  described  as  a  noble 
character,  a  Christian,  and  a  churchman,  and  in 
all  respects  much  nearer  perfection  than  any  one 
else  she  had  ever  known.  Her  only  regret  was, 
that  Bessie  did  not  know  him,  but  she  was  de 
termined  that  she  should  soon  see  him,  for  she 
declared,  that  immediately  after  her  marriage, 
while  other  young  couples  went  to  Niagara,  or 
Newport,  or  across  the  water  to  foreign  climes, 
affection  should  give  the  direction  to  her  jour- 
neyings,  and  her  bridal  tour  should  't>e  to  Bes 
sie's  missionary  home  in  the  far  north-west. 

"Warm-hearted  and  affectionate  Emma!"  was 
Bessie's    exclamation,   as   she   folded   the  letter, 


303  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"truly  I  have  found  in  you  a  noble  and  un 
changing  friend." 

The  last  letter  was  from  Herbert  to  Willie, 
telling  all  his  hopes  and  plans  for  the  future, 
and  how  ardently  he  longed  for  the  day  to 
come  when  he  should  be  ready  to  assist  his  best 
friend  in  teaching  his  ignorant  and  degraded 
race. 

Bessie  was  so  deeply  absorbed  while  read 
ing  the  letters  that  she  did  not  realize  the  ap 
proach  of  night-fall,  until  reminded  by  Aunt 
Jennie  that  it  was  some  distance  to  their  home, 
and  now  almost  dark ;  so,  after  having  read  three 
of  them,  she  arose  to  go,  reserving  the  perusal 
of  Herbert's  until  she  reached  home. 

She  was  sitting,  after  tea,  by  the  little  table, 
holding  in  her  hand  the  letter  from  the  young 
Indian,  and  thinking  what  a  singular  life  his  had 
been,  and  how  much  mystery  still  hung  around 
it,  and  again  his  possible  identity  with  Aunt 
Jennie's  long-lost  son  obtruded  itself  upon  her 
mind,  and  again  she  tried  to  expel  it  as  a  hope 
too  vague  and  uncertain  to  be  indulged.  Aunt 
Jennie  watched  her  closely  for  several  minutes, 
and  then  said:  "Bessie,  that  must  be  a  won- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  309 

derful  letter,  for  it  has  plunged  yon  into  very 
deep  thought." 

"Suppose  you  let  me  read  it  to  you.  Aunt 
Jennie.  It  is  from  an  Indian  youth  who  was 
befriended  by  "Willie,  and  who  has  been  edu 
cated  and  Christianized  entirely  through  Willie's 
exertions,  and  he  is  now  studying  to  be  a  mis 
sionary  to  his  own  people.  His  gratitude  to  my 
husband  is  unbounded,  and  I  was  thinking,  just 
now,  how  strange  it  is  that  this  letter,  so  full  of 
warm,  grateful  feeling,  and  breathing  the  spirit 
of  deep,  earnest  piety,  and  written  and  expressed 
so  well,  should  be  the  production  of  one  who, 
three  years  ago,  could  not  speak  the  English 
language,  and  was  an  untutored,  heathen  In 
dian." 

"Yes,  my  child,  read  it  to  me,"  replied  hei 
aunt,  her  eye  brightening  with  interest,  "  I  should 
like  to  hear  it,"  and  she  drew  her  chair  close  to 
Bessie's,  that  she  might  not  lose  a  single  word. 

Bessie  read  it  all,  and  as  she  pronounced  the 
concluding  words,  "  Your  grateful  friend,  Her- 
bert,"  a  glance  at  her  aunt's  face  startled  her, 
when  she  saw  the  livid,  ashy  paleness  which 
overspread  it  as  she  exclaimed : — 


310  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"  An.  Indian  boy  named  Herbert !" 

Bessie  bitterly  regretted  her  thoughtlessness  in 
reading  the  name,  for  she  saw  at  once  that  she 
had  again  awakened  that  hope  which  her  aunt 
tried  to  assure  herself  had  long  been  dead,  and 
she  hastened  to  undeceive  her  by  saying,  hur 
riedly  : — 

"  I  gave  him  that  name,  aunt.  "Willie  wrote 
to  me  to  name  him,  and  I  gavQ  that  to  him  be 
cause  it  was  my  mother's  maiden  name.'* 

Poor  old  Aunt  Jennie  settled  down  into  her 
usual  despair,  and  said  quietly,  but  with  com 
pressed  lips : — 

"  I  might  have  known  that  it  could  not  be. 
Such  happiness  is  not  for  me." 

"Willie  was  sitting  by,  with  a  newspaper  in 
his  hand,  but  listening  attentively  to  what  was 
going  on.  Like  Bessie,  he,  too,  had  often  won 
dered  if  it  were  possible,  that  this  Indian  whom 
he  had  befriended  and  educated,  could  be  the 
son  of  this  desolate  old  mother.  A  thousand 
times  he  had  recalled  the  chapel-scene ;  his 
clear,  distinct  enunciation  of  the  Creed,  and  his 
familiarity  with  the  Lord's  Prayer,  when  all 
other  sounds  seemed  slrauge  and  unfamiliar; 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  311 

the  reverent  bowing  of  his  head  at  our  Sa 
viour's  name,  and  the  little,  old,  worn  Prayer 
Book.  All  these  things  had  almost  convinced 
him,  long  ago,  that  Herbert  could  be  none  other 
than  Aunt  Jennie's  son ;  and  while,  in  order  to 
give  confirmation  to  his  hopes,  he  had  tried  to 
gain  from  her  all  the  minute  details  of  his  early 
life,  he  had  carefully  avoided  any  mention  of 
his  Indian  friend  to  her,  feeling  that  it  would 
be  cruel  thus  to  awaken  hope  until  there  was  a 
certainty  that  it  would  be  realized.  But  now, 
without  any  volition  of  his  own,  the  subject  had 
been  entered  upon,  he  felt  that  the  time  had 
come  when  it  would  be  right  to  tell  her  all 
that  he  knew  of  this  Indian  youth,  but  he  did 
not  intend  to  convey,  by  word  or  manner,  the 
slightest  intimation  that  his  identity  with  her 
son  had  ever  occurred  to  his  own  mind.  Op 
pressed  with  the  thought  of  the  task  which  he 
was  about  to  undertake,  and  its  possible  conse 
quences,  it  required  all  his  self-control  to  enable 
him  to  repress  his  agitation.  He  waited  a  few 
moments,  and  then  joined  the  others,  by  remov 
ing  his  chair  opposite  Aunt  Jennie,  and  placed 
the  lamp  so  that  its  light  fell  directly  upon 


312  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

her  face.  "With  a  quietness  of  voice  aim  man 
ner  entirely  at  variance  with  his  feelings,  and 
narrowly  watching  her  countenance,  he  said : — 

v  o  / 

"  Aunt  Jennie,  would  you  like  to  hear  some 
thing  about  that  Indian  hoy,  and  how  I  first 
became  acquainted  with  him,  and  interested  in 
him  ?" 

A  feeble,  languid  "  Yes"  was  her  only  re 
sponse,  and  Willie  and  Bessie  were  pained  to 
see  the  reaction  of  indifference  and  unconcern 
which  had  followed  upon  the  disappointment  of 
her  momentarily  awakened  hope.  Fearing  lest 
he  might  again  arouse  it  only  to  be  again  dis 
appointed,  he  spoke  cautiously  and  deliberately, 
and  could  not  tell,  from  any  thing  in  her  ap 
pearance  or  manner,  that  she  was  even  listening 
to  what  he  said,  until  he  began  to  describe  that 
scene  in  the  chapel.  At  once  she  aroused  her 
self  into  an  attitude  of  attention,  her  eye  spark 
led,  her  ear  listened,  her  nostril  expanded,  she 
breathed  hurriedly,  and  finally  clenched  her 
hands  to  repress  the  quiver  of  excitement  that 
thrilled  her  frame.  And  then  he  told  her  about 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  how,  after  frequent  repe 
tition,  it  had  all  come  back  to  him  as  something 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  olo 

he  had  known  long  before,  and  how  he  could 
repeat  these  two  unforgotten  lessons  of  his  in 
fancy,  the  Creed  and  the  Prayer,  when  he 
could  not  make  known  his  commonest  wants  in 
onr  language. 

As  Willie  watched  the  workings  of  her  coun 
tenance,  he  began  almost  to  regret  that  lie  had 
entered  upon  this  history,  of  which  but  one  re 
markable  incident  remained  to  be  told  ;  and  he 
himself  trembled  with  excitement  as  lie  began 
to  relate  the  unfolding  of  that  bundle,  in  the 
middle  of  which  lay  the  little  Prayer  Book. 
Aunt  Jennie's  heart  and  body  were  now  strung 
to  the  very  highest  pitch ;  she  could  bear  no 
more,  but  pressing  both  hands  upon  her  heart, 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  broken  voice  : — 

"  0  my  God,  have  compassion  on  me !  Help 
•me  not  to  hope.  Add  not  to  my  burthen  the 
bitterness  of  such  a  disappointment." 

She  rushed  out  of  the  room,  was  gone  only 
an  instant,  and  returning,  she  placed  a  little 
Bible  in  Willie's  hand  and  said,  hurriedly  : — 

"Tell  me  what  that  book  was  like.  Do  you 
remember  it?  Was  it  like  this  Bible?" 

"  I   do   remember   it  well,  Aunt   Jennie,  and 
27 


31-i  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

ft  was  exactly  like  this  Bible.  li:  was  the  very 
remarkable  resemblance  between  that  book  and 
one  of  mine  which  first  attracted  Herbert's  at 
tention,  and  suggested  to  him  the  thought  of 
going  home  to  bring  his  to  me.  I  will  bring 
my  Prayer  Book  and  let  you  compare  it  with 
your  Bible.  Herbert's  Prayer  Book  and  mine 
were  so  singularly  alike,  that  I  never  could 
distinguish  them  until  I  had  looked  for*  my 
name." 

"  Did  he  never  tell  you,  "Willie,  where  he  got 
that  book?" 

"  Ko,  aunt ;  for  he  did  not  know  himself.  It 
was  in  his  possession  from  his  earliest  recollec 
tion,  and  he  only  remembered  that  among  the 
servants  of  the  chief's  household  where  he  lived, 
it  was  regarded  as  a  kind  of  charm  ;  and  he, 
too,  had  learned  to  look  upon  it  in  this  light, 
and  to  value  it  on  this  account." 

'"The  chief's  household'!  Did  he  live  with 
a  chief?" 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Jennie ;  he  was  called  one  of 
the  chief's  family ;  but  he  told  me  that  he  oc 
cupied  an  intermediate  place  between  the  ser 
vants  and  the  sons  of  the  chief." 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  6lO 

"Why  did  be  leave  them?     "Was  he  unkindly 
treated  ?" 

"!N"o,  he  never  told  me  that  he  was.  An  ac 
cident  brought  him  into  the  chapel  that  day. 
He  bad  frequently  before  been  upon  the  grounds 
exchanging  with  the  boys  moccasins  and  bead 
work  for  tobacco  and  pipes,  and  on  that  day 
was  out  hunting  in  the  woods  near  the  school. 
You  remember  that  I  told  you  he  had  his  bow 
and  quiver  of  arrows.  Wearied  with  the  chase, 
he  was  resting  under  a  tree,  when  the  sound  of 
music  attracted  his  attention ;  and  these  sounds 
being  very  different  from  the  savage  war  music, 
to  which  alone  he  was  accustomed,  his  curiosity 
was  excited  and  he  determined  to  gratify  it. 
The  words  of  the  Creed,  being  the  only  ones 
throughout  the  long  service  which  were  fam 
iliar,  and  these  seeming  to  come  back  into  his 
memory  from  a  period  beyond  his  earliest  re 
collection,  were  such  a  mystery  to  him  that  he 
could  not  tear  himself  away  from  the  place  un 
til  it  was  solved.  This  was  what  first  determined 
him  to  stay  there.  lie  could  not  define  to  him 
self  exactly  what  he  expected,  or  why  he  im 
agined  that  he  could,  by  staying  there,  learn 


316  BESS  IK     M  KI.VI  I.LE. 

how  lie  had  become  familiar  with  these  strange 
words.  Finding,  after  ten  days,  that  the  mys 
tery  was  still  unexplained,  he  determined  to  go 
back  to  his  forest-home,  hoping  that  he  might 
there  learn  something  which  would  throw  light 
upon  it.  The  interval  of  his  absence,  while  I 
was  so  disappointed  at  the  frustration  of  all  my 
plans  for  him,  and  so  worried  at  the  loss  of 
my  book,  he  spent  in  trying  to  extract  from 
the  servants  and  members  of  the  chief's  family 
something  about  himself,  but  they  all  told  the 
same  tale :  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  chief's 
sister,  who  had  died  in  his  infancy,  leaving  him 
to  her  brother,  to  be  trained  by  him  as  a  war 
rior.  He  then  asked  them  where  he  had  leanred 
these  words,  and  repeated  the  Creed  to  them, 
but  they  stopped  their  ears  and  fled  from  him, 
supposing  that,  during  his  absence  in  hunting, 
he  had  sojourned  with  the  Evil  One,  who  had 
taught  him  some  wizard's  incantations.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him,  that  as  they  used  at  that  school 
the  same  thing  which  he  then  called  a  charm, 
and  has  now  learned  is  a  Prayer  Book,  he  would 
take  his  and  go  back  again  and  stay  a  longer 
Mine,  and,  perhaps,  hr  might,  nfter  n  while,  lean: 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  317 

something  of  its  use.  He  compared  my  book, 
which  he  had,  with  his  own,  and  the  external 
resemblance  was  so  perfect,  that  he  concluded 
they  must  be  the  same  thing,  and  that,  from 
me,  who  possessed  a  charm  so  much  like  his 
own,  he  would,  probably,  find  out  something  of 
its  value  and  power.  So  it  was,  after  all,  the 
similarity  in  the  binding  of  two  books  which 
decided  him  to  remain  long  enough  with  me 
for  me  to  become  interested  in  him  and  to  ex 
ert  myself  in  behalf  of  his  education.  This  is 
all  that  he  has  ever  told  me  about  himself;  in 
deed,  it  is  all  that  he  knows.  His  gratitude 
and  affection  for  me  are  very  touching,  and  the 
accounts  of  his  teachers,  as  well  as  my  own  per 
sonal  knowledge  of  him,  assure  me  that  the  re 
sult  will  well  repay  me  for  all  that  I  have  ever 
done  for  him." 

"Tell  me  how  he  looks,"  said  Aunt  Jennie, 
eagerly.  "Does  he  look  like  an  Indian?" 

"No,  aunt;  I  do  not  think  that  he  does.  I 
said  so  from  the  first,  but  my  teacher  and  all 
the  boys  laughed  at  me  for  wishing,  as  they 
said,  to  invest  a  rude,  savage  Indian  with  the 

mystery  of  romance.     His  skin  seems  to  me  to 
o-y* 


318  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

be  rather  browned  by  exposure  than  naturally 
dark,  and  his  hair  is  very  black,  it  is  true,  but 
not  of  that  raven  blackness  which  infuses  a  tinge 
of  blue,  but  simply  black,  and  somewhat  inclined 
to  curl,  instead  of  being  long  and  straight." 

"My  boy  had  long,  beautiful,  brown  curls, 
when  he  left  me,"  said  Aunt  Jennie,  musingly. 
"But,  "Willie,  let  me  see  the  book;  .you  have 
not  shown  it  to  me  yet." 

Willie  brought  his  Prayer  Book,  and  the  first 
glimpse  she  had  of  it  seemed  to  exert  the  same 
subduing  influence  which  the  sight  of  her  sis 
ter's  miniature  had  produced  ;  her  whole  being 
was  melted.  Eagerly  she  seized  it,  and  her 
grateful  heart  found  its  utterance  in  the  words 
of  the  aged  Patriarch: 

"  It  is  enough,  my  son  is  still  alive ;  I  will  go 
and  see  him  before  I  die." 


BJSSSIE    MELVILLE.  819 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

"  Faithful  remembrance  of  one  so  dear, 
0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long." 

COWPER. 

IT  required  the  combined  persuasion  of  Willie 
and  Bessie  to  keep  Aunt  Jennie  from  starting 
at  once  in  search  of  her  long-lost  son.  Neither 
argument  nor  demonstration  could  now  have 
convinced  her  that  the  Indian  youth,  whom 
Bessie's  fancy  had  named  Herbert  was  not  her 
own  little  Herbert,  whom,  at  his  baptism,  she 
had  consecrated  to  the  work  of  an  Indian  mis 
sionary,  and  who,  for  the  past  three  years  of 
hopelessness  and  despair,  on  her  part,  had  been 
preparing  himself  to  fulfil  the  destiny  which  she 
had  herself  chosen  for  him.  At  first,  in  a  maze 
of  bewilderment  between  hope  and  fear,  assur 
ance  and  doubt,  she  could  not  realize  the  blessed 


o20  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

truth,  but  the  more  she  reflected  upon  it,  the 
more  she  was  convinced  that  Willie's  friend 
could  be  none  other  than  her  own  child,  and 
she  adored  and  wondered  at  the  mysterious 
workings  of  that  Providence  which,  in  Herbert's 
case,  as  in  that  of  Joseph,  had  brought  good  out 
of  evil.  And  how  did  the  old  mother's  heart 
cling  to  Willie,  as  the  human  agent  by  which 
all  this  had  been  effected,  and  she  exhausted 
language  in  trying  to  express  her  gratitude. 

"Willie  wrote  at  once  to  Herbert,  to  get  leave 
of  absence  and  come  immediately  to  him.  He 
told  him  who  he  was,  that  he  was  Bessie's  cousin 
and,  therefore,  his  own,  and  that  his  old  mother 
Lade  him  come  quickly  for  she  could  not  wait. 
The  astounded  Herbert  needed  no  ui'ging.  A 
crowd  of  tumultuous  feelings  sped  him  on  to 
the  most  hasty  preparations  for  his  journey,  and 
he  was  very  soon  on  his  way  to  the  place  which, 
ever  since  Willie  had  been  there,  he  had  looked 
upon  as  his  future  home,  but  where  he  little 
dreamed  of  finding  a  stronger  tie  than  the  one 
which  bound  him  to  his  friend. 

The  meeting  between  the  mother  and  son  was 
one  which  Bessie  and  Willie  could  never  l'<" 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  321 

Both  were  afraid  to  believe  in  the  reality  of 
their  pleasure :  the  mother  because  she  had 
taught  herself  to  think  that  for  her,  the  diso 
bedient  child,  a  God  of  righteous  retribution 
would,  in  this  world  at  least,  show  nothing  but 
the  severest  judgment;  while  to  Herbert  the  In 
dian,  without  friends  or  family,  with  no  inherit 
ance  except  the  implements  of  the  chase,  no  re 
ligion  except  the  rites  of  a  heathenish  supersti 
tion,  and  no  education  except  in  the  tactics  of 
savage  warfare,  the  discovery  that  he  was  not 
what  he  had  always  been  taught  to  believe,  but 
the  son  of  a  Christian  mother,  prayed  for  and 
wept  over  during  all  these  long  years  of  hope 
less  separation,  would  naturally  seem  more  like 
a  dream  than  a  reality.  Well  might  the  mother 
be  grateful  for  such  a  son  ;  well  might  the  young 
missionary  be  encouraged  by  the  first  fruits  of 
his  life  of  self-sacrifice.  Gentle  and  affectionate 
in  his  disposition ;  humble  and  earnest  minded, 
anxious  to  learn  and  willing  to  labor,  it  was 'at 
once  evident  what  a  powerful  auxiliary  such  a 
man  would  be  in  carrying  on  the  missionary 
work,  thoroughly  acquainted  as  he  was  with  the 
Indian  character,  their  modes  of  life  and  habits 


322  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

of  thought,  and  the  avenues  by  which  most  read 
ily  to  reach  their  perceptions.  It  was  touching 
to  see  the  mother  with  her  newly-found  child ; 
her  long-starved  affections  seemed  to  have  found 
something  on  which  to  expend  themselves;  his 
presence  shed  a  glow  of  warm  sunshine  upon  her 
ice-bound  heart,  and  the  ray  of  pleasure  which 
now  struggled  into  life,  amid  the  shade  of  sad 
ness  and  remorse  which  ever  rested  upon  her 
countenance,  was  like  the  sun-beam  fringing  the 
edges  of  the  sable  cloud  and  lighting  up  its 
gloom.  She  could  not  be  content  if  Herbert  were 
out  of  sight,  and  would  gently  stroke  his  hair, 
or  lay  her  withered  hand  upon  his  fresh,  young 
cheek,  as  if  striving,  by  the  combined  evidence 
of  all  her  senses,  to  convince  herself  that  he 
was  a  substantial  reality,  a  veritable  human  be 
ing,  "  bone  of  her  bone,  and  flesh  of  her  flesh." 
But  the  time  soon  came  when  this  brief  happi 
ness  must  be  ended  by  separation.  Herbert  had 
learned  ever  to  heed  the  call  of  duty,  and  lie 
felt  that  he  had  now  suspended  his  studies  as 
l<>ng  as  it  was  right  to  do  so.  lie  longed  to 
stay  just  where  he  was,  with  a  mother  whose 
affectionate  care  had  the  charm  of  novelty  added 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  323 

to  its  other  pleasures,  and  with  friends  to  whom 
he  was  so  warmly  attached,  and  in  a  place  which 
he  was  peculiarly  fitted  to  occupy,  and  where  he 
might  do  so  much  good. 

But  the  time  had  not  yet  come  for  him  to 
enter  upon  his  duties.  There  were  yet  twelve 
months  of  study  before  his  course  would  be 
completed,  and  he  knew  full  well  that  his  use 
fulness  would  be  greatly  marred  if  he  should 
begin  his  work  before  he  was  fully  prepared. 

He  was  to  leave  on  the  following  morning. 
Hearts  were  sad  and  heavy  when  he  announced 
his  intention,  but  not  a  single  voice,  not  even 
that  of  his  mother,  had  urged  him  to  prolong 
his  stay.  They,  too,  had  learned  that  pleasure 
must  yield  to  the  requirements  of  duty. 

They  were  sitting,  in  the  evening,  in  the  door 
of  their  little  cabin,  and  the  quiet  moon,  as  her 
glance  rested  upon  the  many  hearts  and  homes 
in  this  lower  world,  found  not  a  more  calm  and 
peaceful  home-scene  than  this  cottage  in  the 
wilderness  afforded.  Serene  and  affectionate 
and  grateful  hearts  were  sheltered  beneath  its 
roof,  and  the  blessing  of  Him  who  "loves  those 
who  love  Him"  rested  upon  it.' 


32-i  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

The  approaching  separation  had  cast  its  shad 
ow  upon  them,  and  the  four  had  been  trying  to 
encourage  themselves  and  each  other  with  an 
ticipations  of  reunion  in  another  year,  and  of 
the  zeal  and  energy  with  which  they  would 
carry  on  the  work  which,  by  that  time,  would 
be  fairly  begun. 

But  the  conversation  grew  less  and  less  ani 
mated.  Each  one  felt  himself  making  an  effort 
in  which  his  feelings  did  not  sympathize,  and 
at  last  it  ended  in  a  profound  silence,  which 
spoke  to  the  heart  as  plainly  as  words,  for  each 
knew  the  burden  of  the  others'  thoughts.  It 
lasted  some  time,  but  Bessie  was  the  first  to 
break  it,  as  she  said : — 

"  I  wish  that  Mary  could  be  with  us  to-night, 
and  then  our  little  missionary  band  would  be 
complete,  and  we  would  have  a  sweet  foretaste 
of  what  our  family  circle  will  be  twelve  months 
hence." 

"  "Who  is  Mary  ?"  inquired  Herbert. 

"  Why,  Herbert,  did  you  never  hear  of  Mary 
Seymour,  my  dear  friend,  and  your  future  co 
adjutor  in  the  missionary  work?  If  not,  I  have 
been  sadly  negligent,  and  beg  leave  now  for- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  325 

mally  to  introduce  you.  Of  course  you  remem 
ber  Emma  Walton?" 

"Indeed,  Bessie,  I  shall  never  either  forget 
her,  or  the  feelings  that  I  had  when  I  first  saw 
her.  Unaccustomed  as  I  then  was  to  female 
beauty  of  so  delicate  a  type,  I  was  almost  en 
tranced." 

"  Well,  Herbert,  Mary  Seymour  was  a  gov 
erness  in  Mr.  Walton's  family,  and  Emma  was 
taught  by  her  before  she  went  to  Mr.  Lester's 
school.  I  went  home  with  Emma  at  Christmas, 
and  it  was  there  that  I  saw  and  learned  to  love 
Mary.  I  have  since  discovered  that  there  is 
very  much  in  her  character  to  excite  affection 
and  esteem,  and  I  now  love  her  for  herself,  but 
I  did  not  wait  to  find  this  out  before  I  was  ex 
ceedingly  interested  in  her;  indeed,  this  interest 
was  awakened  before  I  ever  saw  her." 

"  How  so,  Bessie  ?"  inquired  Herbert,  with 
surprise. 

"  Because,  Herbert,  Emma  had  told  me  what 
a  striking  resemblance  there  was  between  her 
face  and  my  mother's  in  that  picture  which  I 
showed  you  the  other  day.  I  thought  it  was  a 

wild  fancy,  and  did  not,  of   course,  believe  it: 
28 


326  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

but,  nevertheless,  it  made  me  very  anxious  to 
see  her,  and  prepared  me  'to  love  her." 

Aunt  Jennie  now  assumed  a  listening  atti 
tude,  but  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 

Bessie  continued  : — 

"The  strangest  thing  gf  all  is,  that  though  the 
whole  contour  of  the  face  is  like  my  mother's, 
yet  the  most  striking  likeness  is  in  the  eyes. 
Now,  my  mother's  eyes  had  a  very  peculiar  and 
singularly  beautiful  expression  and,  with  my  un 
bounded  admiration  of  them,  and  avowed  dis 
belief  that  such  another  pair  could  be  found  in 
tlie  world,  the  resemblance  must  have  been  won 
derful  for  me  to  have  been  willing  to  see  and 
acknowledge  it. 

"  "Where  is  she  from  ?"  inquired  Aunt  Jennie. 

"Originally  from  New  York,  I  believe,  aunt. 
She  was  reared  by  a  wealthy  aunt,  but  her  home 
was  not  happy,  and,  just  as  soon  as  she  was  old 
enough,  she  undertook  to  support  herself  bv 
teaching." 

"Did  she  know  any  thing  of  her  mother  or 
her  family?"  again  asked  Aunt  Jennie. 

"Very  little,  aunt,  and  what  she  did  know  was 
by  no  means  pleasant.  There  was  some  mystery 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  327 

about  her  wliicli  lias  never  been  solved,  and 
which  has  cast  a  shade  of  sadness  over  her 
whole  life.  I  suspect  that  either  her  mother 
must  have  been  a  very  bad  woman,  or  her  aunt 
a  very  cold,  heartless  one,  for  she  certainly  has 
tried  to  leave  Mary  under  the  impression  that 
she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  her,  though  Mary 
says  that  she  never  has  succeeded  in  doing  so. 
It  is  this  love  and  reverence  for  her  mother,  in 
spite  of  every  thing,  that  I  particularly  admired 
in  Mary ;  this  heroic  determination  to  cherish 
for  her  memory  a  daughter's  affection,  until  she 
has  been  assured,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  she  was 
guilty  of  something  so  fearfully  wrong  that  she 
must  have  forfeited  even  a  daughter's  love." 

"Where  is  she  now?"  asked  Herbert. 

"She  has  charge  of  the  parish  school  belong 
ing  to  Mr.  Kennedy's  church,  where  I  taught 
during  the  interval  between  my  school-days  and 
my  marriage." 

"Did  you  say  that  she  was  one  day  to  be 
my  companion  in  the  missionary  work  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Bessie.  "  She  made  me  prom 
ise  to  let  her  know  so  soon  as  the  services  of 
another  teacher  are  required  in  the  girls'  school 


328  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

which  I  have  recently  opened.  1  hope  that  1 
shall  be  ready  for  her  certainly  in  the  course 
of  another  year,  and  you  can  bring  her  with 
yon  when  you  return  to  us.  By  that  time  1 
hope  that  the  mission  house,  now  in  process  of 
erection,  will  be  completed,  and  that,  when  you 
come  back,  you  will  find  Willie  preaching  to 
a  congregation  in  a  neat  little  church,  with  a 
rectory  adjoining,  wherein  reside  Willie,  and 
Bessie,  and  Aunt  Jennie,  and  where,  too,  there 
will  be  a  nice  little  room  appropriated  as  a 
special  sanctum  for  our  cousin,  Herbert  the  Dea 
con." 

"You  have  drawn  a  pleasant  picture,  my  en 
thusiastic  Bessie,"  said  Willie,  smiling.  "  You 
forget  that  you  are  in  a  wild,  Indian  waste,  and 
have  allowed  yourself  but  twelve  months  to 
work  this  mighty  change." 

"Yes,  Willie,  I  always  was  enthusiastic  and 
impetuous  from  early  childhood,  and  I  find  that 
I  leap  to  results  in  life,  as  I  do  to  conclusions 
in  argument,  utterly  disregarding  all  intervening 
obstacles.  But  if  it  is,  as  you  say,  a  pleasant 
picture,  it  cannot  be  wrong  to  anticipate  and 
hope  for  it,  even  if  we  should  never  realize  it." 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  329 

The  next  day,  Herbert  departed,  and  carried 
with  him  quite  as  aching  a  heart  as  those  which 
he  left  behind.  Stranger  as  he  was  to  the  en 
dearments  of  home  and  the  pleasures  of  the  do 
mestic  circle,  he  had  found  them  specially  sooth 
ing  and  delightful,  and  he  already  began  to  ex 
perience  the  struggle  that  it  would  cost  him  to 
plunge  again  into  his  studies,  and  to  have  for 
his  only  companions  the  less  gentle  spirits  of 
his  own  sex,  each  one  busied  with  his  selfish 
concerns,  and  striving  to  prepare  himself  to 
launch  out  into  the  great  world. 

The  weeks  rolled  slowly  by,  with  the  same 
routine  of  daily  duty.  Day  by  day  wrought 
no  perceptible  change,  but,  in  the  course  of 
months,  Willie  could  perceive  that  the  seed 
which  he  faithfully  scattered  were  not  all  lost. 
In  his  intercourse  with  the  Indians,  his  mild 
and  gentle  manner  won  their  confidence,  and, 
accustomed  to  regard  the  white  man  with  sus 
picion  and  distrust,  as  only  seeking  out  the  In 
dian  in  order  to  overreach  him  in  trade,  or 

• 

drive  a  hard  bargain  with  him ;  when,  after 
weeks  and  months  of  daily  intercourse,  they  be 
came  convinced  that  the  young  teacher  had  no 

28* 


830  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

such  designs,  they  regarded  liini,  at  first,  with 
surprise,  and  then  with  respect  and  esteem.  As 
to  Bessie,  they  looked  upon  her  with  wonder. 
4.  woman  treated  with  the  deference  and  affec 
tion  which  Willie  ever  manifested  towards  her, 
was  to  them  a  strange  sight,  and  they  finally 
solved  the  mystery  by  concluding  that  she  was 
a  being  of  an  entirely  different  mould  from  the 
women  of  their  race,  and  occupied  a  middle 
place  in  creation  between  man  and  the  Great 
Spirit,  and  hence,  they  treated  her  with  a  respect 
almost  amounting  to  reverence.  Her  school  con 
sisted  now  of  about  a  dozen  girls,  who  were  quite 
regular  in  their  attendance ;  and  their  minds 
were  beginning  to  absorb  somewhat  of  her  in 
structions. 

Willie  worked  very  hard.  Beside  the  labor 
of  the  boys'  school,  his  daily  service,  his  pre 
parations  for  Sunday,  his  intercourse  with  the 
people,  which  he  soon  found  a  more  effectual 
and  powerful  instrument  in  doing  good  than  his 
pulpit  ministrations ;  beside  all  these,  he  labored 
personally  in  the  erection  of  the  mission  house, 
and  spent  some  hours  of  each  night  in  trans- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  331 

lating  the  Liturgy  of  the  Church  into  the  In 
dian  tongue. 

Once  a  week  their  hearts  were  cheered  and 
encouraged  by  letters  from  home ;  and  to  go 
for  them,  and  to  see  Bessie's  bright,  happy  face, 
as  he  never  failed  to  bring  back  a  budget  with 
him,  soon  came  to  be  "Willie's  greatest  recrea 
tion  and  pleasure. 

One  day,  he  brought,  among  others,  an  un 
usually  long  letter  from  Mary  Seymour.  Aunt 
Jennie,  who  was  sitting  by  when  it  was  unfold 
ed,  pronounced  it  to  be  a  perfect  newspaper, 
but  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  for,  unlike  a  news 
paper,  it  treated  only  of  one  theme,  and  that  was 
the  same  old  mystery  of  her  early  life.  She  had 
just  received  tidings  of  the  death  of  her  aunt, 
and  with  the  letter  came  a  box  containing  some 
old-fashioned  jewelry  and  trinkets,  which  could 
only  be  valuable  from  association,  and  which  she 
conjectured  had  once  belonged  to  her  mother. 
But  that  portion  of  the  letter  which  riveted 
Bessie's  attention,  and  which  she  read  breath 
lessly,  was  this : — 

"Among  the  other  trinkets  was  a  double-cased 
gold  locket,  which  opened  with  a  spring,  and 


332  BESSIE     MKLVIM-K. 

out  of  which  dropped  a  slip  of  paper,  whose 
full  was  unnoticed  as  my  eye  rested  upon  the 
picture;  so  perfect  a  counterpart  is  it  of  the 
miniature  of  your  mother  which,  you  say,  I  so 
strikingly  resemble,  that,  although  it  seems  im 
possible  that  it  can  be  the  same,  yet  I  must  be 
lieve  that  it  is  until  I  hear  from  yourself  that 
you  have  yours  in  possession.  I  was  so  utterly 
amazed,  that  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  it, 
but  sat  and  gazed  upon  it  like  one  in  a  stupor, 
for  how  long  a  time  I  know  not.  At  last,  when 
my  senses  returned,  I  saw  the  slip  of  paper  ly 
ing  in  my  lap,  and,  on  opening  it,  my  astonish 
ment  was  not  diminished  when  I  read  only  tha 
words  :— 

" '  MARY  SEYMOUR'S  MOTHER.' 

I  was  now  almost  frantic.  It  seemed  so  cruel, 
so  heartless,  to  tell  me  this  and  no  more,  that 
I  could  not  believe  it  possible  that  any  human 
being  would  have  done  it,  and  I  searched  dili 
gently  everywhere  throughout  that  box,  and 
pressed  every  part  of  it,  hoping  to  discover  a 
secret  spring  which  would  reveal  some  docu 
ment  iriving  me  the  desired  information ;  but 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  333 

my  search  was  vain,  this  was  all.  The  Icrcket 
is  evidently  very  old,  and  has  on  its  back  the 
initials  'J.  II.'  I  have  told  you  that  my  mind, 
by  a  natural  instinct,  always  revolted  from  the 
prejudices  against  my  mother  which  my  aunt 
endeavored  to  instil,  rather  by  insinuations  than 
by  positive  accusations,  and  I  am  now  convinced 
that  my  filial  instincts  did  not  mislead  me.  The 
heart  that  shines  out  through  this  beautiful, 
youthful  face,  beaming  with  happiness  and  ra 
diant  with  innocence,  could  not  be  otherwise 
than  pure.  With  my  heart-sick  longing,  I  have 
always  felt  my  need  of  a  mother,  and  if  this  be 
a  faithful  picture  of  what  mine  was,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  the  child  of  such  a  parent  should 
have  felt  most  keenly  the  want  of  gentle  mater 
nal  guidance. 

"It  is  very  hard,  almost  impossible,  for  me 
to  overcome  all  feeling  of  unkindness  and  bitter 
ness  towards  my  aunt,  although  she  now  sleeps 
in  that  narrow  home  whifher  resentment  should 
not  dare  to  follow  her;  but  her  obstinate  and 
persevering  silence  upon  a  subject  with  which 
I  am  now  satisfied  that  she  was  thoroughly  ac 
quainted  ;  above  all,  the  cruel  intimation  which 


BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

she  -gave  me  in  my  last  conversation  with  her 
about  my  mother,  that  it  was  not  impossible 
that  she  might  still  be  living  somewhere ;  all 
this  seems  so  cold  and  heartless,  and,  withal, 
such  unnecessary  unkindness,  that  heart  and 
mind  grow  sick  and  weary  in  the  vain  effort 
to  find  a  reason  for  it.  Pray  for  me,  dear  Bes 
sie.  I  feel  so  tired  all  the  while,  as  if  my  whole 
being  were  forever  exhausting  itself  in  trying 
to  explain  a  mystery  which  is,  for  me,  inex 
plicably  sealed  and  tangled." 

When  Bessie  was  alone  with  Willie,  they 
talked  over  this  letter,  and,  for  a  while,  both 
entertained  a  thought  which  neither  dared  to 
utter.  The  initials  upon  the  locket,  the  fact 
that  Aunt  Jennie's  little  daughter  had  been  sent 
somcAvhere  to  the  eastern  states,  and  that  it  had 
been  darkly  hinted  to  Mary  Seymour  that  her 
mother  might  be  still  living ;  these  circumstances 
were  scarcely  sufficient  to  identify  her  with  the 
little  child  who,  nineteen  years  ago,  had  been 
taken  from  her  mother,  and  carried,  she  knew 
not  where.  But  that  miniature,  so  strangely 
like  her  mother,  what  could  that  mean?  !'.<•-- 
sie's  mind  grew  weary  with  wondering,  and  hop- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  335 

ing,  and  fearing,  and,  at  last,  she  went  to  her 
trunk  and  took  out  the  picture,  as  if  to  assure 
herself,  after  reading  Mary's  letter,  that  she  still 
possessed  it. 

In  the  marred,  and  wrinkled,  and  weather- 
beaten  countenance  of  her  aunt,  stamped  with 
the  impress  of  suffering  and  self-reproach,  Bes 
sie  could  not  trace  the  slightest  resemblance  to 
that  mother's  face,  whose  pale  and  wasted  out 
lines  were  so  lighted  up  by  a  spirit  at  peace 
with  God  and  man  that  sickness,  and  even  death, 
could  not  rob  it  of  its  beauty;  but  she  remem 
bered  that  Mrs.  Kennedy  had  told  her  that, 
in  childhood  and  early  youth,  the  twin-sisters 
were  so  wonderfully  alike,  that  few,  except  their 
father,  could  distinguish  one  from  the  other. 

Bessie  and  Willie  had  talked  about  the  letter 
and  the  strangeness  of  its  contents,  but  neither 
had  yet  given  utterance  to  the  thought  struggling 
in  the  minds  of  both.  At  last,  Bessie  looked 
around,  as  if  to  satisfy  herself  that  they  were 
alone,  and  then,  as  if  afraid  lest  the  very  walls 
might  hear  and  carry  to  her  aunt  the  utterance 
of  a  false  hope,  she  whispered : 

"  "Willie,  suppose   that  Mary  Seymour  should 


336  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

be  Aunt  Jennie's  little  Mary.  "What  do  you 
think,  Willie?  Can  it  be?" 

"Hush,  Bessie,"  said  Willie,  "do  not  say  it, 
do  not  think  it  until  we  have  clearer  proof. 
Never  give  Aunt  Jennie  the  slightest  intimation 
of  the  contents  of  that  letter;  it  would  be  cruel 
thus  to  torture  her  with  hope,  and  fear,  and  sus 
pense." 

And  so  Bessie  and  Willie  never  told  Aunt 
Jennie  any  thing  of  that  letter,  whose  remark 
able  length  had  attracted  her  attention.  They 
frequently  spoke  of  it  to  each  other,  and  they 
wrote  to  Mary,  affectionately  and  sympathiz- 
ingly,  but  neither  did  they  tell  her  of  the  hope 
that  they  entertained,  although  it  was  daily 
growing  stronger  in  proportion  as  they  thought 
and  talked  of  the  strange  miniature. 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  837 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


"Where  is  it  mothers  learn  their  love? — 

In  every  Church  a  fountain  springs, 
O'er  which  th'  eternal  Dove 

Hovers  on  softest  wings. 
Blest  eyes  that  see  the  smiling  gleam 
Upon  the  slumbering  features  glow, 
When  the  life-giving  stream 
Touches  the  tender  brow." 

KEBLE. 


AUTUMN  and  winter  wore  away  in  vigorous, 
active  employment.  With  but  very  few  of  what 
would  be  called  the  comforts  and  necessaries  of 
civilized  life,  in  a  rigorous  climate,  which  seemed 
to  demand  a  greater  amount  of  both,  they  were 
yet  contented  and  happy,  in  the  performance  of 
duty,  and  scarcely  conscious  that  they  were  less 
comfortable  than  they  had  been  in  their  rectory- 
home,  in  their  own  warm  and  pleasant  southern 
climate. 

It  was  with   ever-increasing  delight  that   the 

young  missionaries  watched  the  change  that  was 
29 


833  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

evidently  being  effected  in  the  people  for  whom 
they  labored.  They  felt  that  they  had  been  won 
derfully  blessed  in  their  great  enterprise,  for  both 
being  young,  enthusiastic,  impetuous,  and  prone 
to  be  easily  discouraged,  if  they  did  not  see  im 
mediate  results,  a  merciful  God  had  not  com 
pelled  them  to  wait  long  before  he  showed  them 
the  fruits  of  their  toil.  And  they  were  contented 
and  happy,  working  cheerfully,  gratefully  enjoy 
ing  their  blessings,  and  submitting,  without  a 
murmur,  to  all  their  privations. 

During  the  months  of  the  ensuing  spring  and 
summer,  the  buildings  went  up  rapidly,  and 
when  the  appointed  twelve  months  were  past, 
which  Bessie  had  allowred  for  the  completion 
of  the  picture  whose  outlines  had  then  existed 
only  in  her  imagination,  they  were  all  obliged 
to  acknowledge  that,  for  once,  her  enthusiastic 
nature  had  not  overdrawn  the  reality.  Yery 
considerable  contributions  from  the  church  and 
Sunday-school  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  parish,  and  also 
from  Mary  Seymour's  scholars,  whom  she  found 
no  difficulty  in  interesting  in  the  labors  of  their 
former  much-loved  teacher;  these,  together  with 
a  very  handsome  donation  from  Mr.  "Walton, 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  839 

had  supplied  a  fund  sufficient  to  realize  Bessie's 
dream. 

A  wooden  church,  with  its  plain,  simple  ma 
terials  moulded  into  a  perfect  little  model  of 
church  architecture,  with  its  epire  and  crost 
pointing  heavenward  in  the  midst  of  earthly 
degradation  and  ignorance,  was  typical  of  that 
moral  and  intellectual  elevation  to  which  the 
religion,  of  which  it  was  the  emblem,  would 
raise  the  darkened  natures  around  it.  Close  by, 
as  if  reposing  under  the  shadow  of  the  church, 
was  the  rectory,  Willie's  and  Bessie's  home. 
Sheltered  by  beautiful  oaks,  and  resting  upon  a 
soft,  green  sward,  perfectly  plain,  for  thus  it 
must  necessarily  be,  yet  as  clean  and  bright 
as  Aunt  Jennie's  scrupulous  neatness  could 
make  it,  'it  was  as  sweet  and  smiling  a  picture 
of  home  as  could  be  found  anywhere  through 
out  the  land.  At  a  little  distance,  on  a  gentle 
elevation,  stood  the  mission  house,  containing 
large  and  well-ventilated  school-rooms,  plainly, 
but  comfortably  furnished,  where  Willie  and  Bes 
sie  spent  several  hours  every  day,  instructing 
boys  and  girls  in  the  plain  truths  of  religion, 
in  the  rudiments  of  education,  and  in  the  con- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

ceniri  of  domestic  lite.  From  the  windows  of 
this  building,  the  eye  rested  upon  fenced  fields 
waving  with  corn  and  grain,  where  the  plow 
was  drawn  by  those  little  ponies,  that,  two  years 
before,  were  wandering  idly  about  in  search  of 
food ;  and  they  were  driven  by  men,  who,  at. 
that  time,  lazily  dragged  out  their  useless  lives 
in  smoking,  drinking,  and  hunting. 

The  church,  the  home,  the  mission  house, 
formed  a  prospect  lovely  alike  in  its  moral  as 
pect  to  the  Christian  heart,  and  in  its  quiet 
beauty  to  the  lover  of  nature. 

Such,  at  least,  it  seemed  to  Emma  Walton 
and  her  husband  as  they  drove  up  to  the  door 
of  the  rectory,  where  Bessie's  beaming  face,  and 
scream  of  delight,  and  clasping  embrace,  formed 
a  welcome  which  well  repaid  them  for"  all  their 
fatigue  and  discomfort  in  fulfilling  their  promise. 

Bessie's  home  wore  its  most  smiling  aspect  for 
the  reception  of  her  friend.  The  muslin  cur 
tains,  looped  back  with  bouquets  of  wild  flowers, 
the  nicely-polished  floors,  the  softly-tinted  walls, 
decorated  with  a  few  simple  engravings,  the  air 
of  peace  and  comfort,  all  made  Emma  think 
that  it  was  the  very  pleasantest  home  she  had 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  341 

ever  seen,  and,  as  during  their  brief  visit,  slie 
and  her  husband  formed  a  part  of  that  domes 
tic  circle,  they  found  it  hard  to  realize  that  they 
were  in  the  midst  of  barbarism,  and  that  from 
every  door  and  window  of  that  abode  of  hap 
piness  and  religion,  the  eye  could  only  look 
upon  the  scenes  of  savage  life.  Among  the  en 
gravings,  there  was  one  which  Emma  never 
grew  tired  of  studying.  It  was  a  photographic 
picture  of  Mr.  Lester's  school,  sent  by  him  to 
Bessie,  and  it  brought  before  the  mind  of  the 
girls,  in  minute  detail,  every  locality  in  that 
well-remembered  and  much-beloved  spot.  The 
little  church  in  which  Emma  had  been  bap 
tized,  the  window  of  her  room  just  opposite, 
where  Bessie  sat  during  that  sad  Good  Friday, 
while  she  watched,  as  she  supposed,  her  dying 
friend,  the  school-rooms  and  the  spreading  tree, 
beneath  whose  branches  they  had  studied  the 
Prater  Book  during  the  long  summer  evenings ; 
all  these  things  were  before  them  in  life-like 
reality,  and  it  was  a  part  of  the  pleasure  of 
every  day  to  study  this  picture  together. 

This  expected  visit  from  Emma  had  been  the 
food  of  Bessie's  heart  for  months  before,  and, 
29* 


3i2  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

unlike  most  anticipated  pleasures,  the  ivali'v 
had  not  disappointed  her.  She  found  Emma  all 
that  she  could  wish  her  friend  to  be,  and  if 
the  result,  in  Herbert's  case,  was  an  encourage 
ment  to  Willie,  surely  Bessie  had  every  reason 
to  be  thankful  for  the  abundant  harvest  of 
Christian  virtues  and  principles  in  Emma's  char 
acter,  which  had  sprung  from  the  seed  that  she 
had  sown  during  the  intimacy  of  their  school 
days. 

Warm-hear  ted,  affectionate,  and  unselfish,  firm 
only  where  principle  was  to  be  surrendered, 
and  always  yielding  where  selfish  inclination 
was  to  be  given  up,  quiet  and  unobtrusive  in 
her  religious  life,  but  always  and  in  all  things 
guided  by  its  motives,  trying  to  be  like  her  Sa 
viour  in  that  comprehensive  charity  which  em 
braces  all  the  world,  and  yet,  like  Him,  uncom 
promising  in  the  defence  of  truth,  loving  the 
Church  with  a  daughter's  affection  and  rever 
ence,  and  fully  appreciating  and  using  the  priv 
ileges  which  she  enjoyed  in  that  fold,  Emma 
Walton's  was  a  character  which  Bessie  might 
well  love  and  admire,  and  she  felt  that  she 
never  could  be  thankful  enough  for  the  privi- 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  343 

lege  of  leading  such  a  heart  to  the  Saviour  and 
to  his  Church. 

Of  Edward  Grafton,  Emma's  husband,  Bessie 
found  that  her  friend  had  not  given  her  an  ex 
aggerated  picture,  and  it  was  by  no  means  the 
least  pleasant  part  of  this  visit  to  Bessie,  that  it 
afforded  her  the  opportunity  of  assuring  herself 
that  Emma  had  entrusted  her  happiness  to  one 
who  seemed  so  entirely  worthy  of  her,  who  ap 
preciated  the  treasure  that  had  been  committed 
to  his  keeping,  and  intended  to  guard  it  faith 
fully  and  tenderly.  And  Bessie  was  pleased, 
too,  to  see  how  entirely  he  sympathized  with 
Emma  in  her  love  for  the  Church,  and  how 
they  both  seemed  to  have  commenced  their 
married  life  with  this  idea  uppermost  in  their 
mind,  that  they  were  not  to  live  for  themselves 
and  their  own  happiness  alone,  but  that  it  must 
be  both  their  duty  and  their  pleasure  to  do 
something  for  the  cause  of  Christ  and  of  his 
Church. 

Altogether  this  reunion  was  a  charming  and 
refreshing  little  episode  in  their  missionary  life. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  which  of  the  number 
enjoyed  it  most,  and  as  each  day  of  the  brief 


344  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

fortnight  drew  to  a  close,  and  as  each  "  good 
night"  was  exchanged,  it  was  with  a  sad  feeling 
they  remembered  that  they  had  one  day  less  to 
spend  together,  that  the  dreaded  separation  was 
one  day  nearer.  The  wheels  of  time  seemed 
to  roll  with  doubly  increased  rapidity.  The  day 
of  departure  came,  the  sad  farewell  was  spoken, 
and  when  her  friends  wrere  lost  to  view  in  the 
distance,  Bessie  went  for  a  few  minutes  to  her 
own  room,  not  to  repine  and  murmur  that  they 
were  gone,  but,  on  her  knees,  to  thank  her  God 
for  the  great  pleasure  that  lie  had  granted  her. 
During  the  week  following  their  departure 
Willie's  labors  were  unusually  increased.  They 
had  been  surprised  and  delighted  by  the  arrival 
of  a  stained  chancel-window,  a  present  for  the 
church  from  Bessie's  former  scholars;  and  "\Vil- 
lie,  though  entirely  unaccustomed  to  such  work, 
was  yet  afraid  to  trust  it  to  another,  and  there 
fore  took  upon  himself  the  unusual  task  of  putting 
it  together.  Carefully  and  patiently  he  worked 
until  it  was  all  completed,  and  then  he  and 
Bessie,  and  Aunt  Jennie,  stood  silently  and 
gratefully  gazing  upon  it,  as  the  bright  rays  of 
the  declining  sun  streamed  full  upon  it,  and  re- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  345 

vealod  its  rich  and  beautiful  coloring.  The  pic 
ture  was  iu  harmony  with  the  name  of  the 
church,  "St.  John's  in  the  Wilderness,"  and  the 
prominent  figure  was  that  of  the  forerunner  of 
our  Saviour,  "  clothed  in  raiment  of  camel's  hair 

and  a  leathern  girdle  about  his  loins,"  prepared 

jf 

to  commence  the  first  missionary  journey  ever 
undertaken. 

The  three  spoke  not  a  word,  but  stood  and 
gazed  awhile,  and  then  silently  left  the  church 
with  hearts  full  of  grateful  thanksgiving. 

As  they  were  returning  home  Bessie  said : 
"Willie,  at  this  time  to-morrow  evening  I  ex 
pect  that  our  family  circle  will  be  complete. 
Herbert  and  Mary  will,  I  hope,  then  be  here." 

"  God  grant  it,"  were  the  few  but  earnest 
words  of  Aunt  Jennie,  while  Willie  replied : — 

"  Do  not  be  too  sanguine,  Bessie.  To-morrow 
is,  I  think,  the  very  earliest  time  that  they 
could  reach  here,  and  there  may  be  many  de 
tentions  on  the  way  to  postpone  their  arrival 
several  days.  You  always  forget,  Bessie,  that 
here,  in  these  wilds,  we  cannot  calculate  jour 
neys  and  arrange  distances  with  the  precision 
with  which  they  can  in  the  civilized  world." 


816  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

"That  is  what  you  always  say,  Willie,"  re 
plied  Bessie,  laughing,  "and  yet  I  know  not 
how  it  is,  but  my  impatience  and  enthusiasm 
have  not  often  lately  outrun  the  reality.  Look 
at  this  picture,"  added  she,  pointing  to  the 
church,  and  the  mission  house  in  the  distance, 
"when  I  sketched  it  twelve  months  ago,  you 
thought  it  so  improbable  that  none  but  a  child 
ish  fancy  could  have  ever  conceived  it." 

"  I  acknowledge  it,"  said  Willie.  And  I  sin 
cerely  trust  that  my  little  wife  may  find  her 
present  expectations  with  regard  to  the  arrival 
of  our  friends,  and  every  other  dream  of  happi 
ness  that  she  may  ever  have,  as  fully  realized 
as  she  has  that  fancy  picture." 

They  had  now  reached  the  rectory,  and  as 
they  entered  the  little  parlor,  the  deepening 
twilight  just  afforded  light  enough  for  them  to 
see  that  it  was  not  empty.  A  bound,  a  scream, 
and  Herbert  was  locked  in  his  mother's  arms, 
and  Mary  Seymour  in  Bessie's.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  Aunt  Jennie  could  release  her  son. 
She  kissed  him  and  murmured  thanks  over  him, 
and  again  and  again  tried  to  let  him  go,  but 
in  vain.  Her  anus  would  not  relax  their  hold, 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  347 

and  she  held  him  in  her  embrace  until  Bessie 
laughingly  declared  that  Aunt  Jennie  must  not 
appropriate  him  altogether  to  herself,  and  re 
leasing  Herbert  from  his  mother's  grasp  she 
welcomed  him  home. 

She  then  took  Mary  Seymour  by  the  hand, 
and  led  her  up  to  her  aunt,  who  approached 
with  extended  arms,  and  a  cordial  welcome  on 
her  lips.  It  was  so  dark  that  she  came  almost 
in  contact  with  Mary  before  she  could  see  her 
features,  but  when  she  did  see  them,  she  stopped 
short,  and  stood  as  if  turned  into  stone.  The  ex 
tended  arms  did  not  embrace  the  young  stran 
ger,  and  the  words  of  welcome  died  upon  her 
lips. 

As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  bade  Bessie 
follow  her,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room.  Bes 
sie  hastened  after  her,  and  found  her  panting 
with  excitement. 

"What  is  the  matter,  aunt?"  she  inquired 
inxiously. 

"Who  is  she,  Bessie?  My  child,  if  Mary  Her 
bert  could  ever  come  back  from  the  spirit- 
woi'ld,  and  assume  the  form  and  features  which 
she  bore  when  I  last  saw  her,  she  could  not  bo 


348  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

more  like  herself  than  that  child  is.  Who  is 
she?" 

"I  have  told  you,  aunt,  long  ago,  all  that  Mary 
Seymour  knows  of  herself.  She  has  no  recol 
lections  of  her  parents ;  her  earliest  associations 
are  connected  with  the  aunt  who  reared  her." 

"  It  startled  me  very  much,"  said  Aunt  Jen 
nie,  musingly.  "I  thought,  for  an  instant,  that 
my  sister  was  before  me." 

She  sank  into  deep  thought,  and  Bessie  quietly 
left  the  room,  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  Mary 
Seymour.  After  some  minutes  she  returned  to 
her  aunt,  bringing  an  old-fashioned  locket  which 
she  placed  in  her  hand,  and  holding  the  candle 
so  that  the  light  fell  directly  upon  it.  It  was 
instantly  recognized,  and  with  a  trembling  hand 
she  touched  the  spring,  and  as  the  picture  was 
revealed,  she  exclaimed : — 

"Myself!  my  own  miniature,  which  I  have 
not  seen  for  nineteen  years.  Where  did  you 
find  it?" 

Bessie  replied  by  placing  in  her  aunt's  hand 
the  slip  of  paper  which  had  fallen  out  unob 
served. 

Aunt  Jennie  read.     Her  head  grew  dizzy  and 


BESSIE    MELVILLE.  349 

her  brain  reeled,  and  exclaiming,  "  God  of 
inercy !  can  it  be  ?"  the  weight  of  such  unex 
pected  happiness  seemed  to  stun  her,  and  she 
sat  perfectly  still,  asking  no  question,  and  mak 
ing  no  effort  to  move. 

The  meeting  between  the  mother  and  daugh 
ter  may  not  be  described.  There  was  in  that 
household  no  boisterous  outburst  of  feeling; 
their  joy  was  too  deep  and  full  for  this.  There 
was  a  profound  silence,  first  of  amazement,  and 
then  of  intense  feeling;  a  silence  which  none 
dared  to  break,  except  the  happy  old  mother, 
whose  lips  murmured  a  whispered  thanksgiv 
ing,  which  none  could  hear  except  the  daugh 
ter  who  was  pressed  to  her  bosom,  and  she 
only  caught  the  words  of  the  aged  Simeon  : — 

"  Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  thy  servant  depart  in 
peace." 

Happy,  intensely  happy,  were  the  days  and 
weeks  as  they  now  sped  by.  Aunt  Jennie's 
aged  form  grew  -almost  erect  in  her  new-found 
happiness,  and  her  step  became  elastic  and  buoy 
ant  as  she  pursued  the  daily  round  of  domestic 
duties.  Her  face  no  longer  wore  its  dark  shade 
of  gloom,  but  an  expression  of  grateful  pleasure 
30 


350  BESSIE    MELVILLE. 

beamed  from  her  eyes  and  lighted  up  her  coun 
tenance.  Her  happiness  was  twofold.  Besides 
the  enjoyment  of  having  her  children  restored 
to  her,  she  seemed  to  read  in  their  restoration 
an  indication  of  God's  favor,  and  to  realize  for 
the  first  time,  that  even  for  such  grievous  sin  as 
hers,  there  might  be  in  this  world  as  well  as  in 
the  next,  mercy  and  forgiveness.  Herbert  and 
Mary  entered  heartily  and  actively  into  their  du 
ties,  and  it  was  an  unfailing  source  of  delight  to 
Willie  and  Bessie  to  watch  these  three  beings, 
so  long  isolated  and  friendless,  and  to  see  how 
they  drank  in  the  pleasure  of  domestic  life,  and 
clung  to  that  home  and  family  tie  to  which 
they  had  heretofore  been  utter  strangers. 

Late  in  the  winter,  a  new  light  shed  its  soft 
glow  over  the  family  circle  in  the  rectory,  and 
the  pulsation  of  a  little  heart  and  the  dawn  of 
another  life  linked  together  the  souls  of  the 
young  husband  and  wife  by  a  new  and  triple 
bond. 

There  was  no  dissenting  voice  with  regard  to 
the  name  of  the  little  stranger.  All  agreed  that 
it  should  be  Mary  Herbert,  and  Bessie  felt  that 
if  her  little  babe  could  only  grow  up  to  resem- 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  351 

ble  her  whose  name  she  bore,  she  could  ask  for 
her  no  greater  blessing  either  for  this  world  or 
for  the  next. 

It  was  late,  Saturday  evening,  Bessie  was  ly 
ing  upon  her  couch,  and  she  clasped  a  soft  little 
hand  as  she  read  over  the  Baptismal  service, 
and  pondered  deeply  those  vows  of  renunciation, 
which,  on  the  following  holy  day,  she  was  to  as 
sume  in  behalf  of  her  unconscious  infant.  Wil 
lie  came  in  wearied  with  his  day's  work,  and 
throwing  himself  upon  a  chair,  said: — 

"Bessie,  there  is  a  box  over  at  the  mission 
house  for  you.  As  I  thought  we  would  not 
open  it  until  Monday,  I  ordered  it  to  be  de 
posited  there." 

"Why,  Willie,  what  can  it  be?  Is  it  a  large 
box?  Did  you  say  it  was  sent  to  me?" 

"  Yes,  Bessie,  it  is  something  for  you.  I  should 
have  thought  that  it  contained  the  books  that  I 
sent  for,  but  I  know  that  father  would  have  ad 
dressed  the  box  to  me.  It  is  quite  large  and 
very  heavy.  I  cannot  imagine  what  can  be  in 
it." 

"I  must  see  the  inside  of  it  this  night,  Wil 
lie,"  said  Bessie  laughing,  "or  I  shall  have  no 


352  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

sleep,  so  please  have  it  sent  for  and  open  it  at 
once." 

"  Oh,  no,  Bessie,"  pleaded  Willie,  "  I  am  BO 
very  tired.  Let  us  wait  until  Monday." 

A  merry  voice  called  out  from  the  adjoining 
passage : — 

"You  might  as  well  give  it  up,  Willie;  no 
body  ever  yet  successfully  contended  against  a 
woman's  curiosity.  I  will  go  and  have  the  box 
brought,  and  you  shall  open  it,  and  Bessie  shall 
see  what  is  in  it,. and  then  go  to  sleep  comfort- 
ably." 

"  Thank  you,  Herbert,"  returned  Willie,  laugh 
ing,  "  I  believe  you  are  right.  Send  for  the  box, 
and  we  will  soon  see  its  contents." 

It  was  accordingly  brought,  and  found  to  con 
tain  a  small  Baptismal  Font,  of  exquisite  work 
manship,  and  of  the  purest  Italian  marble.  A 
wreath  of  beautifully  carved  flowers  surrounded 
the  basin,  which  was  encircled  by  the  sentence : 
'Suffer  the  little  children  to  come,"  and  on  a 
corner  of  the  pedestal,  where  none  but  the  most 
careful  observer  would  notice  it,  was  the  name 
"Emma,"  delicately  inscribed  within  a  tiny 
wreath  of  buds  and  leaves.  With  the  present 


BESSIE     MELVILLE.  353 

came  a  sweet,  affectionate  note  from  Emma, 
telling  what  pleasant  memories  she  and  her  hus 
band  had  brought  away  with  them  from  that 
missionary  home,  and  saying  that  she  could  not 
lie  satisfied  until  she  had  placed  in  that  church 
a  memorial  of  Bessie's  first  missionary  work  in 
enlightening  and  instructing  her.  She  also  said 
that  a  small  organ  was  on  its  way,  a  present  to 
the  Church  from  her  father. 

Willie  and  Herbert  were  extravagant  in  their 
admiration,  and  while  the  latter  ran  off  to  call 
his  mother  and  sister,  Bessie  said: — 

"  Again,  Willie,  you  will  have  to  acknowledge 
that  your  wife's  impatience  has  led  to  a  desira 
ble  result.  I  know  that  you  would  greatly  pre 
fer  that  our  little  Mary  should  be  baptized  from 
the  font,  rather  than  from  a  china  bowl  applied 
to  common  uses,  which  you  know  must  have 
been  the  case  if  we  had  -waited  until  Monday 
before  opening  the  box.  And  besides  this,  it 
will  always  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to  have  the 
baptism  of  my  little  daughter  associated  with 
the  memory  of  my  best  beloved  friend." 

"Yes,  Bessie,  I  acknowledge  that  you  were 
right  again,  and  I  am  sincerely  obliged  that  you 
30* 


854  BESSIE     MELVILLE. 

insisted  so  strenuously  upon  having  your  wishes 
gratified,  and  glad  that  your  curiosity  triumphed 
over  my  indolence." 

The  next  day,  a  pure  bright  Sunday  morning 
the  rite  of  Holy  Baptism  was  administered,  for 
the  first  time  in  that  little  church,  before  a  large 
and  attentive  Indian  congregation.  Encircled  in 
Herbert's  surpliced  arms,  the  infant  stranger  was 
signed  and  sealed  by  him  as  "  Christ's  faithful 
soldier  and  servant  unto  her  life's  end;"  and  the 
young  father,  and  the  happy  Aunt  Jennie,  and 
the  gentle  Mary,  were  the  sponsors  for  the  little 
Mary  Herbert. 


THE      KND. 


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